Jarhead
by madame.alexandra
Summary: In this very au continuation, Jenny is the girl Gibbs meets in high school - his first love, until some unexpected teenage mistakes change their lives, and the paths they take, forever. Jibbs-oriented; Shannon friendly. 3rd part in a 4 part series. This part focuses on Gibbs and what he's up to, running concurrently with 'Shepard Girls.'
1. Jenny Was a Friend of Mine

_a/n:and back at it - with part 3/4 ! this part takes the title 'Jarhead' both from the Jake Gyllenhaal movie about a troubled Marine, and the fact that a slang word for Marine is ... Jarhead. Succinct. This part is distinctly not very Gilmore Girls inspired - but remember, we're starting back at 1987 (chapters one of this, and one of Shepard Girls, run concurrently) and then we're seeing what Gibbs has been up to through roughly the same years!_

* * *

Camp Lejeune, North Carolina: 1987

Jenny Was a Friend of Mine

* * *

It was amazing how seemingly pointless conversation could have the ultimately important effect of taking his mind off of everything. Sitting next to a veritable stranger on a gloomy Greyhound bus, he didn't think about the daunting, empty future, or the ruins he'd found in Stillwater; he listened to Shannon Fielding talk about anything that popped into her mind – all the while knowing she was just doing it to try to keep him from losing his mind.

He listened to her talk lightly about how rich her parents were, and how they thought that made them better than everyone; how she loved dogs but she'd never had one, and she wanted one as soon as she had her own place – about why she'd transferred to Stillwater High, about how her parents hadn't wanted her to see _The Breakfast Club_ because it was _filthy_ but she saw it anyway, and she loved it. She loved her mother and her father, but she thought they were old fashioned and silly – they were horrified she was taking a year off to travel before college, but it was her money she'd saved, and she couldn't wait – she was going to send them a postcard from every place she went, and then pick a college in her favorite and stay there. She'd gotten into Dartmouth, but she didn't want to go there; she'd gotten into Wellesley, but she didn't want a degree in getting married.

He didn't know half of what she was talking about – he'd never heard of Wellesley, and the beauty of the whole thing was, he didn't have to ask; she was just chattering, exactly like she'd said she would. And he just had to sit there and let her words clog up his head until there was no room left for him to try to figure out Jen's actions, or to mentally reread the letter he'd memorized, or to wonder if Natalie was old enough to miss him and to know what had happened.

Despite being the father of a two-and-a-half year old, he didn't know anything about babies – he didn't know anything about anything at all, except maybe being a Marine, and that was all he had, now.

She touched his arm, and tugged slightly on the sleeve of his uniform.

"They're going to make us change buses," she said brightly. "You won't leave for Richmond for another hour – c'mon, you – we – need food."

He blinked at her, and she arched her brows.

"Mess, grub? How do I say it in Marine-speak?" she joked. She tugged on his hand again, standing up and beckoning. "Jethro," she coaxed.

He got up and followed her, maneuvering through the bus and stepping heavily out onto the pavement at the bus station – just near the outer boundaries of Washington, D.C. She stood for a moment, her nose scrunched up, and the wind whipping at her hair, as if she could smell sustenance on the air. She glanced around, and then pointed.

"This way."

"How do you know where you're going?" he asked gruffly, following her as she dodged through people – he made it easier for her; people stepped back and made room for a man in military uniform.

"I don't," she said simply. She laughed. "That doesn't matter. Would I really go off on a big travelling adventure if I planned where I was going?"

He didn't know how to answer, so he didn't say anything, and somehow, minutes later, after twisting and turning down some alleys, backtracking once, crossing a street, and turning left, she was pulling him into a hidden little diner under a bridge, and he had no idea how she'd stumbled across it.

"Perfect road trip dining location," she said primly.

"Think you watched too many movies about this stuff," he said dryly – a bell rang as they entered; he blinked at the booths and the chrome décor, and felt like he'd landed himself in the middle of a _Happy Days_ episode.

"I am coming of age," Shannon told him matter-of-factly. "This kind of wildness is my right of passage."

Dryly, he thought it was a better kind of wildness than the kind he'd gotten into, but he didn't want to bring that up – already, in the brief silences, in the time she'd stopped talking to find this place, he'd started letting the stress and the worry and the uncertainty come creeping back in, and he was thinking about Jen again.

The redhead across from him slapped a sticky, laminated menu down in front of him.

"Pick your poison," she murmured, perusing hers quickly. Her eyes flashed over the choices; she shook her hair back over her shoulders, and he stiffly looked down, eyeing the pictures warily, unsure if he was even hungry – but he needed to eat; he didn't know what they'd ask of him when he got to Lejeune, and he needed to be ready.

"This is all breakfast," he grunted.

Shannon laughed. She looked up at him through her lashes.

"Turn the menu over," she suggested smugly.

He did, but he ended up turning back to breakfast. For some reason, he wasn't feeling greasy burgers or grilled ham and cheese…maybe because he'd missed breakfast this morning, and pancakes always sounded good.

A waitress came over – old, with grey hair, and a pink bow in it – and waited; Shannon ordered a milkshake and chili cheese fries, and Gibbs ordered pancakes. As he asked for syrup, the waitress started to turn, but Shannon caught her.

"Actually, he wants powdered sugar on the pancakes," she said. "And coffee, black coffee," she added. "Decaf."

The waitress glanced at Gibbs, rolled her eyes a little, and went off.

"Trust me," Shannon said, giving him a swift wink. "Powdered sugar is better. You need it. You'll thank me."

"Decaf?" he growled. "What's the damn point – "

"You're already going to have trouble sleeping," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders.

She leaned back neatly in her booth, her shoulders straight, still managing to look relaxed. She blinked at him a few times, and smiled.

"What's your assignment at Camp Lejeune?" she asked.

"Military Police," he answered. He made a face, and shrugged.

"Is that not what you wanted?" Shannon asked intently.

He shrugged again. He didn't think it mattered too much; it was a noble assignment – not the most highly desired, but not the bottom, no-good, last-chance Marine, either. He hesitated, and then frowned.

"Respectable," he said, his voice low. "But, 'M not an officer, and I'm young," he muttered.

Shannon nodded thoughtfully.

"So, you think they'll hate you for having authority, and not like you at all," she mused.

"Don't care if people like me," he said dully.

"You should," she remarked, tilting her head. She leaned forward. "You shouldn't care if people like your clothes, or your opinion on the Viet Nam war, but when you want people to like you, you generally tend to be a better person." She paused, and licked her lips. "But I guess you have to balance that with caring too much. You can't please everyone."

He looked at her a moment, considering it, and then his expression darkened.

"I spent three years doin' what I was supposed to, and bein' the better person, and makin' everyone fawn over me, and it didn't do a damn thing."

She leaned back, startled, about to respond, when the waitress brought their food, and she instead decided to stay silent, because she wasn't – she wasn't quite sure what he meant.

Gibbs, reached for the coffee immediately – decaf tasted the same as caffeinated, and she was probably right about sleep – but it tasted like ash, and he found he had trouble swallowing; he just wasn't hungry; he just didn't feel like eating or drinking or – or sitting here, or anything.

He had spent three years – since the day he found out Jenny was pregnant! – hauling ass, and standing tall, and holding his chin up even when whispers followed him, and doing everything he was supposed to, never sticking a toe out of line – even when he was exhausted and he just wanted to go fishing or read a comic book or work on his car; he did what he had to, and he made himself look upstanding and impeccable, because that made things easier on Jenny.

Jenny had always had it harder than him, but as long as he'd made sure everyone knew he adored her and Natalie – and that wasn't hard; it wasn't difficult to adore them – everyone softened on her, they decided if Gibbs would be so noble as to stand up and stick by her – as if he'd ever, in his right mind, do anything else –they should see the brighter side of it all, too.

It had been exhausting for him to do that, to be so good all the time, such an attentive father – to make sure he never made a mistake, or looked tired, or lazy, to make sure no one saw that scratch on the back of Natalie's knee that she got when he was fiddling with the engine of his Dodge Charger and he wasn't paying attention and she fell, trying to climb up to see him.

He spent so much time never stepping a toe over the line that it suddenly all felt like a fog now; he didn't know who he had been for all that time, before he joined the Marines, while he was just working and supporting Natalie and watching his mother die: after all, Natalie had lived with Jen; and he hadn't realized, maybe until now, that it had all been so much harder and more confusing than he'd thought.

He was nineteen years old. He was constantly terrified he'd hurt his daughter or do something wrong, but he never had the chance to embrace that aspect of new parenthood: he had to be a deadbeat dad, or a perfect one: teen parents were not afforded the same attitude towards mistakes as normal ones.

He stared at his coffee, picked at his food, and tried not to feel relieved, tried not to feel like the burden was gone – she may have taken Natalie and run across the country, but he still had a child, and he loved her; no matter how difficult it was, or what the dark voices in his head tried to persuade him of, he _loved_ Natalie.

He ate a few bites in silence, trying out the powdered sugar.

"What do you think?" Shannon asked softly.

He looked at her, and smiled tiredly, nodding – it was good; she was right – and less messy than syrup. He tried a bit more, watching her eat, looking around at the place – he was trying not to think too much, but he couldn't help it –

He felt so out of place, so _strange_. He'd expected – to be making plans to bring Natalie and Jenny with him, to move them in to a new place at Lejeune and settle down and start moving forward, even if they'd started a little late. He was angry at her, he was fighting that guilty, haunting sense of being unshackled from responsibility – he missed them, he hated Jen, he wanted them back, he wanted to go to California, he wanted his mother. He didn't know how he could feel so many conflicting things at once.

He cleared his throat.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Shannon asked patiently.

He considered a piece of pancake, and shrugged.

"What the hell 'm I s'pose to do?" he asked aloud – maybe not even to her; maybe to no one in particular. "I don't know what the hell she was thinking."

Shannon bit the inside of her cheek, thinking about it critically.

He shook his head, his brow furrowing; he was suddenly acutely aware of how far away California was. He couldn't – even if she wanted him to do some grand romantic gesture, to run after her and show her how much she mattered to him – he wasn't going to desert the Corps; he wasn't going to be the man who dishonored the uniform to go chasing after a woman who hadn't even had the guts to say goodbye to his face.

But as sure as he was that he couldn't take off after Jenny, he wasn't so sure he could deal with the result – barely seeing Natalie, even never seeing Natalie; despite the fact that he felt like a pressure was lifted off of him, almost immediately he missed it, because even in Stillwater, when he'd felt overwhelmed or angry at the way things had turned out, he'd always been able to pick Natalie up and hug her or look into her eyes and know that it was all worth it.

If he couldn't see her – if he couldn't hug her, or hear her laugh – even hear the new words she would learn, how would he keep perspective, stay grounded, and make sure he had direction and a steady head?

For so long, Jenny and Natalie had defined him –

"What were you thinking of doing?" Shannon asked nicely.

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

"I," she began carefully. "I – don't know what her letter to you said, or what your…what you guys are like, as a couple, but I…I think you need to make a plan," she said gently, advising him.

His knuckles tensed; he jammed them into his jaw, holding his head up with his hand. He stared down at the food in front of him, picking at it; glaring at it, and then he shrugged, helpless, angry.

"Plan?" he repeated gruffly. "Meanin' what?"

"Well," she began cautiously, "maybe you should write down some key things to say, decide what you're going to – propose, like if you're going to ask her to come see you, or," she trailed off slightly, watching his eyes flash.

He ran his hand over his mouth, and over his eyes, and then he pushed his plate away violently and put his head down on the table. He covered the back of his neck with his hand, his fingers digging into the bare skin above his uniform collar. She swallowed hard, leaning forward and grasping his elbow gently.

"Jethro?" she asked.

He shook his head in response, stubborn and unwilling to face her. He felt like he couldn't lift his head, his jaw, his shoulders, everything hurt so much suddenly that he couldn't move, and he felt like he was going to start crying – he felt like he had, so overwhelmed with everything, at his mother's funeral, except there he'd had Natalie to hold on to.

Shannon bit her lip, frowning. She sidled quickly out of her booth and came around to his, sliding in next to him and moving closer. She pulled gently at his hand, squeezing his elbow comfortingly, bending closer to his ear.

"Jethro," she said again, trying to lift his head. He swatted her away angrily, and she frowned, helpless. She looked around, unsure what to do – despite the hours on the bus, the talking, sitting close to him, laughing – despite hearing all kinds of stories and rumors about him and her while she was in high school, she didn't _know_ him at all.

"Is he alright, dearie?" The waitress had approached them, and she looked concerned – more concerned about their ability to pay, most likely, than Gibbs' well being.

Shannon nodded brightly, mustering some calm nonchalance.

"I need the check," she said, breezy but matter-of-fact.

"Split?"

"It's on me," she said hastily, waiving the waitress away.

She turned back to Gibbs, concerned, and tilted her head. He lifted his, rubbing his temple, barely registering that this girl had just decided to buy his food, and the man he'd been raised to be would never have let a girl do that. He rubbed his eyes, blinking hard, rapidly, and looked over at her.

"I miss my kid," he said hoarsely.

He said it as if he were amazed, as if he were confused; as if it were some wild confession. Her lips puckered in sympathy, and she ran her hand over his neck, nodding. He set his jaw, and bent his head, staring down at the table his arms rested on – God, he missed her; God, he was lost at the thought of not seeing her.

It wasn't _just_ not seeing her – it was that he hadn't seen her, in months. And suddenly, that had just hit him so hard.

Shannon looked at him for a long time – she turned, she paid the waitress in cash before she could even set the check down, and then she turned back to him, her hand on his neck again. She studied him intently, and then she nodded to herself, as if making a decision. She touched his cheek gently, and then scooted back a little.

"I'm going to go with you to Camp Lejeune, okay?" she suggested – decided, more than suggested, really. "I bet there's someone in your unit who can get you a drink."

She said it dryly, and while he was still blinking, still processing, she was getting up, taking his bag, gesturing for him to come with her – _come on_ , she beckoned, _back to the bus; I'll talk to you some more._ He rubbed his head again, and followed her – out into the deserted, dusty looking streets, catching up to her, grabbing his bag.

He shook his head.

"You can't," he said.

"Why can't I?" she demanded, bristling.

"You said you were gettin' off in D.C.," he remembered. "Startin' your – tour of all the state capitols with the capitol," he quoted – he'd been listening better than she thought.

"So?" she retorted. "I'll take you to Lejeune, and I'll start with Raleigh – and I'll visit Asheville, and then you'll get settled, and before I go off, I'll make sure I know your number, so I can check up on you – "

"You don't have to _take_ me anywhere!" he snapped. "I been takin' care of myself, and my family – "

"But no one's been taking care of you!" she interrupted. "Even you haven't been taking care of you!"

She tucked her hair behind her ears, and put her hands on her hips; then she let them drop, folded her arms, grit her teeth, and seemed to struggle with herself.

" _Look_ ," she said, the word hard and decisive, "I didn't want to – say anything," she said. "It's none of my – you sat on that bus, and in that diner, and you're blaming yourself, and I can't say I know what was going on in – Jenny's mind but – it's not _your_ fault," she said seriously.

" _Somethin'_ made her run, Shannon!" Gibbs growled, his voice cracking. "If it wasn't me, what the hell was it? I was gonna marry her!" his volume went up, and then he reigned it back in, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "When she asked me not to join the Marines after high school, I stayed for her," he hissed. "I _stayed_."

Shannon stepped back from his anger, nodding, her blue eyes wide.

"I stayed because she asked me to – I gave her two years, and when I left – she didn't even give me half of _one_ ," he growled.

He dropped his bag on the ground and kicked it viciously.

"I didn't ask her to wait forever – I just had to finish training! She – _goddamnit_ , even when she was pregnant it was her choice; I wasn't a part of it! She and her – father were going to decide - she went to the doctor, and when I took her her homework that day, I didn't even know if she'd had an abortion or not!"

He knew that Shannon didn't need to hear all this – and he'd never talked about it with anyone, how Jenny's father had taken her to a doctor in Scranton, and how Jenny had hinted that he might be seeing about getting her a trustworthy doctor – because her mother had said she'd pay for it, if that's what Jenny decided – and Gibbs had no say; just like he had no say in the custody agreement, just like from the day Natalie was born, his life was bound to Jenny's, bound to Natalie's, and even when it was hard he had never resented her, or punished her for it – because it had just happened, and they had to do what they had to.

"I thought I knew her," Gibbs insisted, his voice low and hoarse.

He turned away, rubbing his jaw, and then whirled back, fear flaring in his eyes.

"What the _hell_ does she _want_ from me?" he shouted. He flung his hand out. "I did what I was suppose to," he raged. "I _wanted_ her!"

He was looking at her like he was waiting for the answer, and then he sat down on the curb next to his gear, kicking it again, and he cradled his face in his palms, his shoulders sagging. She stood for a moment, and then carefully sat down next to him, tentatively touching his shoulder, and then putting her arm around him lightly.

He slid his hands down, staring at them, and lifting his shoulders roughly.

"Figure I should just let her go," he said, coarse and nasty. "I'm off the hook," he added, with a mirthless smirk. "Any other guy'd be glad."

Shannon shook her head, licking her lips.

"I don't think you mean that," she guessed astutely. "Jethro," she began softly, tilting her head, "you don't have to owe her anything," she sighed, "but you're never off the hook with Natalie."

He didn't even nod; he knew that, and he didn't need to be told twice – and no matter how much he might feel a little relief, a little relaxing of the stress of constant fatherhood, no part of him wanted to forget about Natalie or neglect her; he couldn't imagine his life without her being a part of it – or having been a part of it; there was something, that maybe he was still too young to understand, about that little girl that made his world go 'round.

Shannon rubbed his shoulders, squeezing gently, sitting there with him, and sitting close to him.

He wondered why she cared, what she thought of him. He didn't know why he'd let her see him lose it, but he felt so – out of control, that maybe giving in to that before he got to the base and bottled it up was good; maybe this way, he was less likely to snap. He needed work; he needed something to channel all this into.

"You'll get to Lejeune, and you'll call her," Shannon said, gentle but firm.

He stared at his feet, shaking his head dejectedly. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to ask, what to demand, what to do – and even now, thinking about her for this split second, he felt a flash of hate that scared him; it made him miserable, to feel that way, to have such a negative emotion burn so uncontrollably, when Jenny was the girl he'd loved with all his high school heart.

"What if I don't?" he asked huskily.

He looked at Shannon, both defiant, and somehow uncertain.

What would happen, in the end, if he just gave her what she seemed to want, and made her regret it, made her come looking for him when Natalie started asking for her Daddy? If – _if_ – Natalie ever asked for her Daddy.

Shannon parted her lips, her lashes fluttering for a moment, before she answered.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, trying very hard to figure out subjects older than her, and out of her realm of expertise. "I think if you did that, you might prove whatever fears she had…that pushed her to run away, or doubt you…correct," Shannon said quietly. "And I think, no matter what happens, that you'd want to reach out at least once…because then no one can ever say it was your fault; that you didn't try."

He narrowed his eyes, and looked away slowly – the heat blistered down on his neck, and he wondered how he'd ended up here, nineteen, sitting on a curb, traveling the east coast with a girl he barely knew, struggling to figure out where the military was going to take him, and why he'd been so blindsided, why he was losing when he really thought he was doing it all right.

"It's six or so more hours to Lejeune," Shannon said bravely. "You'll get settled in – you'll take it day by day, Jethro," she promised, earnest. "You'll figure it out." She paused, and smiled. "I can send you post cards," she said lightly, quietly. "I said I'd be your friend."

He finally looked back at her, his eyes dull; he was tired of fighting, tired of thinking – maybe he was ready to get back on that bus, and listen to her ramble, listen to her talk some more – maybe it would do him some good. He lifted his shoulders, studying her critically.

"Why're you doing this?" he asked tiredly, shaking his head.

She shrugged, and rubbed her knee, sighing a little.

"Maybe because I know my mother would be scandalized," she said, her cheeks flushing a little, "me, her little debutante, making friends with the disgraced boy."

Gibbs watched her warily. Shannon frowned to herself, and then looked at him, and smiled. She tucked her hair behind her ears.

"And I have this rule," she admitted.

"Rule?" he asked quietly, still feeling like it was exhausting just to speak.

She nodded.

"It's rule number – three, for my adventure," she said. She took a deep breath. "It's that I can't forget where I came from. I need something to anchor that part of who I am. And you – we're both from small town Pennsylvania. When you sat down at the bus stop, and you looked – like you needed _something_ …" she trailed off, and then sighed. "I don't know. I think I also just always – admired you. You and her. But I always too scared to approach her, or play with Natalie, or tell her, so maybe if I had… "

Gibbs laughed – he surprised himself, but he laughed hoarsely.

"Jen leavin' Stillwater doesn't have a damn thing to do with you."

"I know," Shannon said carefully, looking at him with wise eyes. "But she didn't have any friends left. And that's hard on a girl."

Gibbs clenched his jaw, looked down. Shannon blinked in the sun, and squeezed him again.

"It didn't have anything to do with you either," she said confidently.

Gibbs turned to her. He wanted to ask how she knew that, but perhaps deep down he knew that Jenny was always going to do what Jenny wanted; Jenny had always refused to see that some things had to be sacrificed – Jenny had never quite accepted that Natalie had to change her life, utterly and completely, and that she had as much responsibility to Gibbs as she had to Natalie, because Gibbs had given so much to her.

He nodded, and shrugged, looking up at the sun, thinking about the long hours to come – about what would happen when he got to Camp Lejeune, about where things would go after that – and in the heat, on the curbside, despite what Shannon said, and despite what cold logic tried to tell him, he still felt guilty, he still felt angry, and he couldn't stop feeling the burn of the long, drawn out _Dear John_ that had been waiting when he'd gone back to make good on his promises of getting them out, and she'd already given up on him.

* * *

When he got called into his supervisor's office, Gibbs felt a sense of doom hanging over his head – the good thing was, it instantly made him realize he didn't really want to get in trouble; he didn't want to jeopardize the only thing he had left – but the bad thing was, he was still such a new Marine, he might really have done himself in.

He had a half-cocked idea of why the commanding officer wanted to see him; it might be because of the bloodshot eyes, the barely controlled attitude – might be because of the wrinkled collars, or maybe someone actually had witnessed him get into that fight last night, and had just now squealed on him – regardless of what it was, military police were held to even higher standards than the average military Joe, and Gibbs was probably in for it.

He stood at attention, back straight, shoulders stiff, head held high, his eyes wide and attentive as the Master Sergeant prowled around the desk, eyeing him. He was quiet for a long time, and then he flicked his wrist up towards Gibbs' eye.

"Where'd you get that shiner, Marine?"

Gibbs stood for a moment – answering quickly was a must, but he wasn't about to throw himself under a bus by meekly admitting he'd been fighting; he'd rather say something that bordered on cheeky and have this guy get in his face and start screaming at him. The sergeant was a hard ass – Gibbs respected him, but man, he was a dick.

He went for smartass.

"Cut myself shaving, sir," he answered, loudly and firmly.

There was a split second where he thought the sergeant was going to kick him out of the Marine Corps with his own two feet, but instead, the man gave a bark of laughter – mind, it was mildly annoyed laughter – and shook his head. He took a seat heavily, and gave Gibbs a critical look.

"Well as long as you didn't get it from a Naval officer who caught you sneakin' out of his wife's bedroom I guess I don't give a damn, do I?" he asked rhetorically, pointing harshly at the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down, Corporal."

Gibbs sat down, his back still as straight as a board. He grit his teeth together hard; his head was killing him, and his vision was swimming. He needed a glass of water, bad – or a bloody Mary; something to ease whatever was still sloshing in his system.

The Sergeant looked directly at him, his expression cool.

"Have you been drinking, Marine?" he asked dangerously.

Gibbs didn't miss a beat.

"No, sir," he lied, careful not to take his bloodshot eyes off of his commanding officer – luckily, he had plenty of practice staring down people who thought he was worthless, spineless, or up to no good, and it was no problem; he just pretended the sergeant was his father.

He wasn't about to 'fess up when he was at least seventy percent sure he could pass a breathalyzer or a sobriety test right now – seventy percent. The other thirty percent was weakly blaming Shannon for telling him he should get a drink, and loudly trying to convince him that this was all Jenny's fault, anyway, so he wasn't responsible.

The sergeant didn't say anything; instead, he was opening a file.

"You came out of Parris Island and Geiger with top marks, top recommendations," he growled, in that typical way old Marines did – like success annoyed them, like they wanted to shame you for being damn good – it was all a facade; a way to force you to make them madder by being better.

Gibbs nodded, the corner of his mouth turning up a little, but the sergeant shot him down mere seconds later.

"Funny; I ain't seen shit about you since you got here that's so goddamn impressive," he barked, plastering the file down on the desk and shuffling through some papers. "I'm disappointed, Corporal," he snarled. "I had a note in here that said you wanted Sniper MOS one day; looks like we'll send you to get your ass whupped on the front lines instead, you keep this mediocre bullshit up."

Gibbs blinked, but said nothing – he couldn't say anything; his performance had been mediocre and half-assed; since Shannon had dropped him off and he'd decided he was going to try medicating himself, or apparently try getting himself kicked out so he could go storming after Jen without getting himself arrested in the process – except what he'd do when he got there, he didn't –

"You get that glazed, daisy-pickin' expression off your face, Jarhead, and look at me," ordered the sergeant.

Gibbs blinked again, paying closer attention.

The sergeant was holding up two pieces of paper – not, Gibbs noticed immediately, UCMJ violation papers, discharge orders, or letters of reprimand, but forms from his own personnel file. Before Gibbs could focus on them tightly and read them, the commanding officer slammed them down and leaned forward, tapping his fingers on them.

"Where're these dependents?" he demanded.

Gibbs stared at him blankly, taken aback. He wasn't sure what he was being asked, and then in half a second, he realized –

"Jennifer Gibbs, maiden name Shepard, nineteen," growled the sergeant. "Natalie Gibbs, two and a half," he listed. "I got these two, and I got you on a waiting list for base housing – you're in the barracks, right now?"

Gibbs stared at him stonily, and nodded once – all the new arrivals were in the barracks and temporary housing, though some were at hotels with their significant others, or in rented bed and breakfasts with their families. Gibbs hadn't had to worry about that, after all – one hassle down, he figured.

"I don't see a damn wedding ring, Marine."

Gibbs gave him a pointed look.

"That'd be because I'm not married," he said, " _sir_ ," he finished curtly.

The CO's eyes narrowed.

"You ought to know we don't put unmarried couples in housing," he said shortly. "You get on it, we'll bump you, 'cause of the kid, but until then, open housing is goin' to those who – "

"Don't need it," Gibbs said, with the most uncaring shrug he could muster. "Didn't work out."

His CO looked at him critically, and leaned forward.

"Looks like you jumped the gun then, doesn't it?" he asked coolly. "Listin' 'em as spouse and child before you get the documents."

Gibbs leaned forward.

"That is my kid," he said fiercely. "I just didn't marry her mother."

The Gunny considered him a moment, and then glanced back at these papers.

"I been puzzlin' over this," he admitted. "Master Sergeant thought you were falsifying documents – "

"She was supposed to be with me – "

"Don't interrupt me, Corporal, you'll get your turn," barked the Gunny. "I told 'im to let me have you for a day before he put you through to a disciplinary board for trying to scam housing – 'cause I take a look at this, and I see your check's being garnished, been that way since Parris Island – child support?"

Gibbs sat back stiffly.

"I said, she's my kid," he repeated, resisting the urge to shrug, and narrow his eyes – he kept him self in a respectful seat, at ease, his cover neatly on the side of the chair.

"This says part of your check is mailed directly to a Jasper Shepard."

Gibbs grit his teeth heavily.

"That's my – her – it's my kid's grandfather," he said, stumbling over his words – what the hell was he supposed to call Jenny now; how was he supposed to think about her, when he had to? Considering he spent most of his time doing anything not to think about Jenny, he hadn't really decided how he felt.

His commanding officer was staring at him, and Gibbs didn't know where this was going, or what it was about. Why the hell did it matter where his paycheck went?

"It's a hell of a lot of money for child support, Marine," the Gunny said dryly.

Gibbs gave him a neutral look.

"Court ordered?"

Gibbs gave a tiny, stiff shrug.

"Some of it," he admitted tensely.

Some of it was, yes – but a lot of it, he sent anyway, to make himself look better in his father's eyes, in Jasper's eyes, and to make sure maybe Jenny could get Natalie something fun, instead of necessities – Jenny always said her father gave the checks straight to her; he never opened them or looked at them, it had just all been set up when they were minors.

"You're over eighteen, boy," the sergeant said. "You can't have half your check beholden to your girlfriend's father," he warned. "You need to settle this differently – mail your own checks, but don't be lettin' the government bypass you on these things – you got joint custody of this kid?"

Gibbs shook his head.

"No," he grunted.

The Gunny arched his brows.

"She comin' up here with you any time soon?" he asked bluntly.

Gibbs leaned forward and rubbed his jaw, forgetting himself for a moment before straightening back up sharply, snapping back into a good posture, and shaking his head.

"Sir," he said, heavy and dull, "I don't know what the hell she's doin.' She's in California."

The Gunny grunted.

"California," he said. "Well. That ain't close," he said tightly – obviously.

Gibbs felt an irrational urge to sock him in the jaw, but he – smartly – refrained. His head gave some insistent throbs – he wanted to go back to his bunk and sleep for the next ten hours, until next shift; he wanted a gallon of water and no fluorescent lights.

"I got forms here for you to deal with this bank stuff," the Gunny said. "Re-orient it how you want to – don't protest, don't give me shit about it; none of my Marines report to their girlfriends' fathers – you take this up with your girl, and your girl only," he said matter-of-factly.

He seemed to hesitate, and in a split second, Gibbs understood that this guy had figured it out; this guy knew that between Geiger, and being assigned here, something had really thrown Gibbs off his game – and Gibbs realized he wasn't here to be booted or reprimanded; he was here to be cautiously warned, and he straightened again, wary.

"Look, kid," he said finally, his voice gruff, "if she don't want you, she don't get your money," he told him flatly.

He handed over the documents, and instructions for how to stop the allotment, and he leaned closer, his expression harsh.

"Next time I ask you if you been drinkin', you better give me a better poker face, or be sober," he threatened – he knew damn well the Marine sitting in front of him was, if not still a little under the influence, completely hung-over and only half-fit for respectable duty; he'd been watching him for days, and some snot-nosed wannabe officer in the barracks had reported on him – but unlucky for that little twit, the Gunny didn't like snitches.

Gibbs looked at the papers in his hands, and up at the sergeant.

"It's not her money," he said abruptly. "It's my daughter's money."

The Gunny gave a bark of sarcastic laughter.

"You can't trust a woman who runs off on you with your cash, Marine," he growled. "Girl like that – maybe she's seen that damn officer and a gentleman movie too many times, but I guarantee you ain't a dime of that goin' to her kid."

Gibbs bristled slightly; no matter what he thought of Jenny right now, he didn't believe that. He had to believe – he did believe – that she had done this because she genuinely thought she was doing what she needed to, and Jenny had never once spent money on herself before making sure Natalie had everything she needed to keep her happy, healthy, and secure.

The Gunny looked at him a moment, and then sighed harshly.

"You deserve a UCMJ violation," he said bluntly. "I don't know what she did to you, Corporal, but we don't let women ruin our lives – we sure as hell don't let faithless little broads destroy our careers," he told him firmly. "You start gettin' your ass up, getting' your bunk made without a wrinkle and your collar starched without a bend, and you show me the Marine they told me I had comin' out of Parris Island – because if there's one thing that won't get her back for you, son, it's gettin' yourself a dishonorable discharge from the Marine Corps and goin' after her when she already ditched you."

The words were cold, harsh – so much of it didn't even understand what had happened; Gibbs was suddenly impossibly torn between jumping to Jen's defense – and he knew that was an absurd way to feel, but he also knew what Jenny wasn't some empty-headed tramp who had run off for another man or something; she was a scared, anxious teenage girl who'd been berated and cooped up and whispered about for years – but at the same time, he did feel like he hated her, and he couldn't stop thinking about what his next move should be, and what he was going to do about Natalie – so he sat there, letting the Gunny's words slap him in the face, maybe trying to internalize them a little –

He was at least right with part of it: it wouldn't do him any good to get kicked out of the Corps. He'd be right back where he started – but he'd have that shame to carry with him, and with no other skills, and no college education – and no real idea if it was the Corps, or if it was something about _him_ , that had chased Jen away – he had nothing else, and he needed these brothers, this uniform – this code.

"You're dismissed, Marine."

Gibbs stood; he saluted, and exited the room in perfect form, the things he'd been given folded and clutched in his hand, crinkling up.

It felt like it was burning a hole in his hand as he walked back to the barracks, his eyes straight ahead, hardly making eye contact with anyone, in case they wanted to stop and chat – not that he'd bothered to get friendly with anyone yet.

He'd needed this kick in the ass; he needed to be callously told to shape up – and not just by Shannon on the phone who, when he'd answered last week, clearly drunk, and hardly able to carry on a conversation, had shouted at him that she'd told him to get a drink, not a habit, and hung up.

He needed to call her, and apologize; but Shannon was on her adventure, Shannon was traveling – he never knew where she was – and she was just a distraction right now, anyway, a distraction from the actual redhead he needed to be calling, to talk to, to – figure this out –

He stopped outside of his barracks, the sun beating down on him, and looked down at the forms – at how much he was sending to Jenny's father, at his paycheck, at how to revise it, and he set his jaw, nodding curtly to himself – he needed to talk to her about this; he – they – needed to set this straight, because he needed to know what he was dealing with – what she wanted; what she had really done – and not in some long, drawn out, articulate letter; he wanted to hear her voice; he wanted to hear from her lips the truth of this betrayal.

He needed to call her. He shouldn't have waited so long – but more than anything, he realized, as he stood staring at the amount of money on the forms, and thinking about who it was for, he needed to call his daughter, because none of this was Natalie's fault – and her little voice would probably do wonders for him, anyway.

* * *

He meant it when he told his commanding officer he'd get it together – he'd quit drinking – and it wouldn't be hard to quit, it wasn't as if he was _that_ far gone yet, that unable to control himself – but before he tossed all the whiskey and forced himself to wait until twenty-one like a good kid, he resolved himself to finishing the last bottle of good bourbon – that's what he'd decided his drink was – just to help him get through this phone call.

It was some hour when everyone was out, everyone was on liberty, and he was supposed to be, too – and maybe he should have gone with some guys, made some connections, blown off a little steam, but time was passing, and he knew he was slipping dangerously into territory that seemed like neglect of Natalie, of talking to her, and he didn't want to give Jen any ammunition against him, if it came to that.

So – he steeled himself, he locked himself in his bunk on base – his room mate was out on liberty with everyone else – and he sat with a black phone to his ear, making the call.

He'd been making the call for almost an hour – the answering machine picked up, but he didn't want to leave a message; it felt like a cop out, and he wasn't sure she'd have the nerve to call him back. He wanted to confront someone: he'd spent ages working up the courage to do it – and he wanted – he wanted to talk to his daughter.

He hung up, dialed again, rubbing his jaw heavily – he took a slow sip of bourbon; he didn't even wince, anymore, when he swallowed – and then, when the phone seemed about to ring off the hook again – it stopped.

Mayhem answered.

The ringing was gone, and he could hear a child – Natalie, he recognized, and reminded himself – _Natalie_ , that's my _child_ –

"Hello?"

"Mama, bee! Mama _beeeee_!"

First he heard a garbled greeting, and then Natalie screaming some more – crying; she was definitely crying. He furrowed his brow, his head throbbing – he was so caught off guard, so unprepared for this chaos – hell, he'd been expecting her mother to answer, so he – tried to buy himself some time:

"This Melanie Shepard?"

"Yes, this is Melanie Shepard's residence – this is her daughter," Jenny said politely, frazzled and annoyed at the same time. "Natalie Winter, _QUIET_!" she barked.

The silence that fell made Gibbs bristle; he hated when Jenny snapped at Natalie – he'd always hated it, but she always got so offended when he said something about it, because she got so mad at him for always being able to keep his cool –

"This is her daughter, Jenny," Jenny repeated.

Gibbs put his head in his hand, pressing his palm into his forehead. He wasn't prepared for this – he wasn't even half as prepared as he'd thought he was. Hearing her voice, just hearing her voice was awful; he felt angry, he felt confused, he felt relieved –

"Jethro?"

Her voice came softly, cautiously, and he pushed his hand through his cropped hair, matching her voice to her face – to how she'd looked the last time he saw her, waving goodbye at the Parris Island bus depot; if only he'd known then that she was thinking about this, thinking about running –

He straightened up a little, leaning back. He looked long and hard at the class of bourbon on his table, and he let her sit there, wondering what he was going to say. He swallowed hard, and spoke without thinking, unsure what would come out –

"I want to talk to Natalie first."

He hadn't exactly planned on saying it, but now that he had; he stood by it firmly. That's what he wanted, yes – he wanted what was important, his little girl; he wanted to hear that she was okay.

"Jethro," she began bravely, "I don't know if that's a good – "

The moment she started that, the moment she even dared deprive him, he snapped out of his uncertainty. He clinched his fist and leaned forward, pointing at nothing, gesturing even though she couldn't see him.

"Put her on, Jenny, or I will hang up, and I will call back until I get your mother and she puts Natalie on," he threatened tensely – it wasn't much of a threat, but he was willing to be a perpetually ringing phone would be irritating enough to get him his way, and he no matter what happened, he wouldn't threaten the mother of his child with anything more than petty anger.

He heard her pull the phone away; Natalie whimpered something, Jenny said something, and then before he could blink, there was a little voice on the phone.

"Da Da?" she piped up curiously. "Da Da? Where?" She squealed. "Bee sting!" she told him, her voice cracking unhappily.

He swallowed hard, a smile jumping to his lips in spite of everything.

"Don't let the bees get you down, Bug," he said bravely. "You're a Queen Bee, ruling them all – you hear me? Bees got nothin' on you."

Natalie giggled a little.

"You doin' okay, Natalie?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered sweetly, sounding carefree. She giggled. "Yes!" she shrieked.

He nodded his head. He didn't know what to say now, what to ask; she was so very little, and he didn't want to scare her, or say anything wrong, anything that might make her unhappy.

"Did Mama kiss that bee sting yet, Nat?" he asked soothingly.

"No," she drawled. There was a sudden shuffling noise, a small thump, and then Natalie gasped. "Da Da?" she asked – Gibbs figured she must have dropped the phone; she would be clumsy, after all; she wasn't even three yet. "Da Da, kiss bee stings," she said. "Where you are?"

His smile faded. He grunted.

"Caro – North Carolina, Natalie," he said hoarsely. "'M in – 'm with other Marines. On the east coast," he said – he knew it meant nothing to her.

"I see you?" she asked.

"Not today, Natalie," he said tightly. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes tightly. "Who's there with you, huh, Princess?" he forced out steadily.

Natalie, in the middle of babbling some nonsense, paused.

"Melly," she pronounced clearly. She trailed off, talking in babyish gibberish. "Mama, too. _Teeeeeny_ bed," she trilled.

Gibbs took a deep breath.

"You like it there?" he asked huskily. "You okay? You scared?" he asked rapidly, trying to figure out if she sounded happy – at least she'd asked where he was, she'd asked to see him – that was good, that meant she knew who he was, still; he hadn't waited so long she'd forgotten – but she was so little, so, so little, what if –

"Pretty," Natalie sighed sweetly. "Sun. I like sun."

"Sun," Gibbs repeated, nodding to himself. "Seen the ocean?"

"Oshee!" she cried. "Birds – sands, wavies," she listed. "Da Da," she crooned, matter-of-factly. She giggled to herself, lowering her voice. "You see Oshee!" she said. "Come see sun!"

He clenched his teeth together so tightly he thought his jaw would crack, and he closed his eyes, reaching out to wrap his hand around the glass of whiskey, and squeeze until his knuckles were white. It took all of his self-control to keep his voice steady, but in that moment, he couldn't talk to her anymore – because he was weak, and hearing her voice was suddenly hurting more than it was helping.

"Can you let me talk to Mommy, Natalie?" he asked heavily.

Natalie made a small, gentle noise of consent.

"Mama," he heard her said. "Daddy," she mumbled.

"I love you, Natalie," he said quickly, still clenching his jaw – he hoped his voice didn't sound too scary, or too different. "You know that? I love you."

"See you," she said. "Love you."

She sounded like Tinkerbell; like something beyond his reach, that hadn't ever really been his.

"Jethro," came Jenny's voice, worried, distracted: "don't—don't hang up!" – and then the phone was put down for a moment – or moved, or held against a shoulder, or something.

He started to see spots, for squeezing his eyes so tightly shut, and in the moments that the phone changed hands, and he heard Jenny talking to her mother, and someone laughing with Natalie, he tried to compose himself, to be able to deal with Jen in however he needed to –

"Jethro?"

But truth be told, he didn't know what he was doing, and he didn't know what the hell she was going to come at him with, so he cleared his throat gruffly, trying to put up a steely front, and he went straight at her.

"How'd she get the bee sting?" he asked tensely – a painfully normal question; the same question any father might ask his child's mother, if she happened to waltz in from grocery shopping with a screaming toddler.

He heard Jenny breathing nervously.

"In the thrift store parking lot," she said in a small, careful voice. "It was after the – her hands were sticky, from a Popsicle. It was after the sugar."

He swallowed hard.

"She's not allergic to bees?" he asked.

She'd never been stung before, and she'd sounded pretty distraught – not one she'd heard his voice, but still, extremely upset – and he knew bee allergies could be really bad for little kids –

"No," Jenny answered kindly. "No, Jethro, she's okay."

She sounded too relaxed; too carefree. He immediately bristled – is that what she thought was okay in California, Natalie screaming the whole way home from the thrift store, while she lived it up?

"She didn't sound okay," he said curtly. "Sounded like it hurt."

Jenny paused.

"Is _this_ what you want to talk about?" she asked sharply – she'd sensed his critical tone, and he was viciously glad he'd put her on the defensive.

"No," he answered, slightly triumphantly; he was happy he'd pissed her off, reminded her that she should be on the defensive – this was not a cute phone call, this was not the romantic call from the soldier father to his family waiting faithfully back home – this was her judgment day, and she knew it.

"It's been weeks, Jethro," she said. "What took you so long to call?"

He was so - genuinely stunned that she had the gall to question him that at least it ignited some indignant rage in him, and he wasn't so speechless and lost.

"Is _that_ what you want to say to me, Jen?" he demanded icily.

She made a strangled little noise.

"If you're not going to say anything, I have to say something!" she burst out desperately. "You can't call to breathe at me in a rage – "

"I called to talk to my daughter," he interrupted dangerously.

"You could have done that a little sooner," she snapped.

He fell silent. He let that simmer for a moment, because she was right – he shouldn't have screwed around, he shouldn't have spent some time getting drunk, getting reprimanded, feeling sorry for himself; he should have called Natalie, because Natalie mattered. He could have hung up on Jen if he wasn't ready for her; but she was right about Natalie.

"Took me a minute," he confessed tightly.

"Took you a minute? To do what – do decide if she _mattered_ – "

"Took me a minute to get it, Jen," he interrupted harshly, cutting off her self-righteous diatribe. "To really get that you ran out on me. That you took her, and ran."

He sensed her recoil from him; he knew her so well he could almost imagine what she'd look like when she heard him target her.

"Yes," she said, in a voice that tried to sound firm, but sounded weaker than anything he'd ever heard her say – even when she'd been scared, after just finding out she was pregnant, even when Natalie got an ear infection and she called him crying because she didn't know what to do.

He may have started this call with uncertainty, but her attitude so far – her words so far – just solidified his position as the party with all the rights to be angry, and all the rights to be mean.

"What the hell got into you, Jen?" he asked.

It demanded an answer, and he listened hard in the silence, trying to hear something between the lines before she said –

"Jethro, it's so complicated," in her brittle, anxious voice.

"Explain it," he ordered harshly.

"I, I, I," she stammered – and guiltily, he took pleasure in her distress. "I can't, Jethro!" she cried out softly, her voice cracking, mechanical through the earpiece of the phone, grated over miles and miles of phone lines. "You won't understand, you didn't understand, at the funeral, at boot camp graduation – "

"What didn't I understand?" he barked, inflamed, pissed off, desperate to _get_ it. Hadn't he - ? "I was doin' what I could. I did what I was supposed to do. I couldn't do a damn thing to make you understand that it wasn't going to work exactly like you wanted it to – "

"I know it wasn't!" she interrupted – but he didn't think she did; despite her big talk, and her reconciliatory words, and her attempts to put on a face, he didn't think Jenny had ever gotten over how much Natalie had forced a huge change in everything they'd ever thought or planned, and she'd let that cloud her vision, and her ability to sacrifice her previous desires.

"That's the whole fucking point!" Jenny continued. "It just all fell apart. You know – you – Ann was holding it together, giving us this charming, bubble world, making it all seem safe and like we'd be okay and just – the whole support system fell apart, and you know as well as I do that it just wasn't _working_ – "

His anger flaring hot again, he cut her off:

"You don't get to blame my mother for this bullshit, Jen," he snarled. "You think she would have been proud of you for taking Natalie away? For – running off like a coward? She would have – " He paused quickly, trying to think of something that would hurt Jen as badly as he felt right now, and he said – "She would have hated you for this."

It worked; Jenny gasped, her voice hoarse.

"Don't you dare put that on her," she snapped. "That's you talking, Jethro, that's you – and you can hate me, and I won't dispute your right to hate me, but Ann - -but – your mother, she understood me, Jethro, she loved me," Jenny cried, "and she never would have hated me. She wouldn't have liked this; I know that – but she understood me so much better than you think!"

"She never would have done this!" Gibbs shouted, slamming his fist down on the table for good measure – he didn't know why they were talking about Ann; he suddenly missed his mother more than anything, wanted to rage at the world for taking her away from him – as if Ann's death hadn't been devastating enough without Jenny using it as some excuse for her own insecurities and inability to make sacrifices.

"Ann was a saint!" Jenny was saying – finally, something Gibbs agreed with. "She was a _saint_ , and I'm not that strong. I wasn't cut out for it! You used to – you used to rage at how your father made her wilt, crushed her spirit, ignored her fantasies, reduced her to a mother and a wife and now you're – you almost sound like him!" she accused.

He remembered, then, that she knew how to hurt him, too; she knew him well enough to push the right buttons, just like he knew exactly how to fight her – and he felt like they were having two and a half years worth of fights, because they had never been like a normal teenage, impassioned couple; they'd had to be united, had to be together against the world for Natalie and because of Natalie.

"I never tried to hold you back or pin you down," he barked, his voice getting harder, more aggressive. "I - I didn't leave you, Jenny, I didn't quit. I went to do what I had to do to find a way out for us – you think Ma would ever forgive you for taking my daughter away from me?"

"Stop bringing your mother into this; stop using her against me!" she burst out. "She's dead, Jethro, she's gone, you'll never know what she thinks about me – just speak for yourself, tell me you hate me, but stop, please stop," she was sobbing now, "you hit the right button, you got it, sharp and hard, like you always do; you always know what to hurt people with."

He leaned forward, clutching the phone, pressing it hard to his ear, gritting his teeth – hadn't he heard that before; hadn't his mother once told him that, when he said something cruel to his father in one of their fights – hadn't she told him he always knew right where the jugular was?

He listened to her crying – to her trying to compose herself, trying not to cry – and he felt so sick and so empty and so tired. He wished violently that they were having this fight in person, that somehow he'd caught her leaving and this was him convincing her to stay. He wished he wasn't alone; he wished he didn't understand how much she hated Stillwater, because he hated it too – and even though it had been exactly what was best, what he thought she agreed to, he had left her there, and he knew how it was ten times as miserable for her.

He swallowed hard, breathing out heavily.

"I don't hate you," he said slowly.

His brow furrowed; he almost confused himself. He felt something strong like hatred, but no, he didn't hate her; not now, not yet – he was in too much chaos, he still had too much going on – and in very guilty moments, he still felt the creeping sting of relief, the whisper of the devil on one shoulder that kept congratulating him for being off the hook, telling him he could be free of responsibility now, maybe just be the cool dad who showed up randomly, with presents.

He shoved the heel of his hand into one of his eyes until he saw spots, shaking his head.

"Why'd you do it, Jen?" he asked tiredly.

He didn't want to be the cool dad. He wanted his daughter; he wanted them – he always had; that was the point. He hadn't joined the Marines to get away from them. He – it was just – he knew Jenny resented it because his plans had always been the military, and he got to do it; her plans all went up in smoke, and lingered in maternal purgatory.

"Didn't your father give you my letter?" she asked in a small voice.

He fought down the urge to scream at her that she was a coward.

"I want to hear it from you," he said instead – diplomatic, he thought.

"What else can I say, Jethro?" she murmured weakly.

He gave a hollow shrug that she couldn't see – after all, nothing she said would make him feel better, unless it was that she was on a plane now, regretting her idiocy, coming to him for good.

"I _couldn't_ get married," she whispered desperately. "I thought about it – and I felt like I was suffocating, choking, like it was a trap I just – I just wouldn't get out of. We're just … we're just too young, and the idea of – resenting you, or being miserable with you – it's such a repulsive idea to me, so contrary to the fantasies I had – the stupid, stupid fantasies," she gasped, "before Natalie."

He gripped his own shoulder, hunching himself forward.

"You just had to make room for Natalie," he said coldly – that's what he'd done; he'd adapted, adjusted, he'd stopped trying to make two completely unrelated paths fit together once an unexpected child had been added in.

"I did, Jethro, I did," she insisted – but he wasn't buying it; she'd always been trying to make it work exactly how it was supposed to before the baby. "I love that little girl more than anything in the world and you know it. I didn't leave her. I didn't abandon her for you to take; I didn't run off never to be burdened with motherhood again. But think…think…about how we would have struggled – "

"We always struggled, Jenny," Gibbs growled, rolling his eyes. "That's nothin' new – it's never been easy," he reminded her – he'd been there, every moment he could, struggling next to her in Small Town Hell. "But you didn't give it a chance, you just wrote me off, wrote the whole damn thing off," he accused. He paused, and swallowed tensely. "You're so sure you'd hate being married to me?"

She'd said so much in that goddamn letter – about how they didn't really know each other, about how they were so young and so naïve and their worlds were so unsettled – he thought he knew Jenny well, and on some level, he did understand her, and this, though it surprised him, fit in to the kind of girl she was, but he didn't truly empathize with her because for him, all that would be fine, as long as the figured it out together.

"I'd hate being alone! I'd hate doing nothing while you made your way – "

"The Marines aren't a cakewalk, Jen," he barked, "and you wouldn't have been alone, you'd be with me – "

"No," she snapped fiercely. "No – let me tell you," she began, going off: "you'd have been at work, all day, brutal training. The second you were done, you'd get deployed – no, Jethro," she snapped, before he could even break in, "you would. And traveling with you – then I'd have no support system, no friends, no family, no job, just the fear of losing you and the barely-there infantry pay you get – and if I'd stayed in Stillwater, I'd have gone mad. And then if you came back, if you didn't die out there, you'd be different, you'd be changed, just like my father was always different, after deployments, and we'd be too young to deal with it, we'd just be lost and confused, and we'd have Natalie and – it just would have combusted, Jethro. _It wasn't going to work._ I told you I couldn't stand in the way of you joining the military – you were meant for it – but you can't expect me to – to – "

Listening to all that, his heart fell; his stomach felt like heavy rock. Maybe she was right, but it didn't matter; he had stood by her –and he had expected, at least for a while, for her to try – who was she to condemn it all before they had even tried?

"Yes, I can, Jen," he said dully, contradicting her. Keeping his voice controlled, he felt dark; he wished he could see her face, stare into her green eyes. "It would have been halfway decent if you'd given me a chance."

He heard her sniffling quietly.

"You forgot to call, me, Jethro," she whimpered. "Those final weeks, I needed to hear your voice. I kept trying to resist this urge, I kept – I needed you. I just wanted to hear you tell me it would be okay. And you – you never called."

That - was hard for him to hear. She was right – he remembered he'd kept forgetting, kept getting caught up in the guys, or training, or liberty, or shooting the bull with Matteson, with escaping from the pressure of being a father at eighteen, and he'd – he'd kept forgetting to call her back. But if he'd thought, for one second, she was that desperate, that on edge – he supposed he owed her an apology, because a part of him would never forgive himself for enjoying the freedom being away and at boot camp ironically gave him.

"You were just gone, Jen," he said hoarsely, closing his eyes tightly. He tipped some whiskey into his mouth, swallowing hard, thinking of Stillwater, of looking for her in the dress shop. "You were just _gone_."

He hit his teeth against the glass, then put it down loudly, rubbing his jaw.

"That last letter you sent, with Natalie's drawings," he said huskily. "Was it from California?"

He remembered how it had gotten lost in the mail, been sent and re-sent, and he'd wondered about it then – why hadn't his gut alerted him?

"Yes," she confessed honestly.

He bit on his lip a long time.

"I didn't deserve this," he told her tiredly.

"It's not a punishment, Jethro. It's – this is very much not about you, or anything you did."

It felt like a punishment to him. It felt like – he had never been good with describing feelings, he just knew he felt bad – and drinking had helped that. It was a damn good thing he'd already resolved to never let his Marine career be jeopardized again, because the temptation to drown this pain was strong.

"It's all about you," he told her bitterly – vicious and accusatory, but quiet.

It satisfied him when she didn't defend herself. He hoped she was still crying – he'd always hated to see Jenny cry, but now, now he felt the vindictive desire to watch her cry.

"She asked for you," Jenny ventured.

Gibbs put his hand against his ribs, wincing. It was a very physical ache, a tightness in his chest.

"Don't," he lashed out. "Don't do that – why the hell would you do that to me?" he demanded – he thought of Natalie, and how she needed her bee stings kissed. He couldn't be there.

"I'm sorry. I want you to know – she didn't forget you."

He couldn't be there to kiss her bee stings, and she didn't know why – and what would Jenny say if she asked?

"She'll think I never gave a damn about her," he said dryly – the thought disheartened him, made him hollow; to think of Natalie growing up without him, without knowing how much he loved her in spite of everything, and in spite of how scared he'd been that he was going to be a father at seventeen, was to think he'd failed.

Jenny finally spoke again, moments later.

"Where are you?"

Gibbs let her sit and wait, considering telling her to fuck off. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to know – didn't want to give her a reason to be glad she'd gone to sunny, fabulous California.

"Lejeune," he said finally, grudgingly. "Military Police. North Carolina."

"How long are you at Lejeune?"

"Until they PCS me, Jen, who the hell knows," he snapped – _what the hell do you care, Jen?_ He picked up his glass, knocked it against the bottle, and then set it back down, tired. "You think you'll have this figured out by then?" he questioned, a nasty edge to his voice.

It was half a mocking question, half a desperately serious one – she'd realize this was madness, right? She'd miss him. She'd miss their life together – she'd miss the chance for them to be all alone with Natalie, away from their fathers, away from prying Stillwater eyes.

"I don't understand you," she said – and he knew her well enough to know it was because she was dreading really answering him.

"You're going to get your head on straight, find what you need?" he asked, almost quoting her letter. "What am I doing here?" he asked.

That was his million-dollar question, after all – what the hell was his role; what was he supposed to do? She held all the power – custody, the freedom to go wherever she wanted – he couldn't do that, as a Marine; he couldn't do what she could.

"Are we done?" he asked.

Agonizing seconds later, she said:

"I don't think we're together anymore, Jethro – it's not your fault," she went into her circumlocutions almost immediately. "I don't blame you – I don't think less of you – I love you, Jethro, you didn't run me off; it's so very much not your fault – I know you did everything for me – "

"It's your fault," he agreed, interrupting, harshly lashing out. He felt cold. "You should have learned to make sacrifices."

"Why did I have to make the only sacrifices? You got the military," she whined. "You got what you wanted – "

"At the expense of missing her all the time," Gibbs growled. "Every damn day. Missing her. You. Wondering what she was doing – you couldn't stick by me for that?" he demanded. "You think it's going to be any better there?"

He tried to make her nervous, tried to disparage her, but he knew with dread that it would be better for her there – she'd always come back from California happier, especially after Natalie; she'd always been drawn away from him, when she was there.

She started talking again, going on and on, and he caught the last part, her reasoning –

"…and I would rather have the memories of Stillwater, the good ones, than let what we had become tarnished and – ruined."

He sat back heavily in his chair, the phone loosely at his ear. He stared at the whiskey.

"You ruined it, Jen," he said dully.

It was true, and his words were icy; she had done this. She had – left him nowhere to go, left him powerless – if he was a crueler man, more of a hound, he might try to take her down for it, but he wouldn't really do anything to hurt Natalie's mother, and he wouldn't – really – try to take Natalie away when he was still, most of the time, half-terrified of raising a child himself.

"What about her life?" he asked, thinking of his daughter. "Natalie?" He swallowed hard. "I get a say in that?" he asked, prodding for sore spots. "What if I sued for custody?"

He stood half a chance to get Jasper on his side.

"You wouldn't get it," Jenny raged. "Never. Your life belongs to the military. You let them own you. You – you're threatening to take her from me, Jethro?"

He stood up, though no one could see him – though he had no one to lunge at, and for a scary moment he was glad she wasn't sitting in front of him, because he shoved the table in front of him forward, knocking things asunder.

"You took her!" he shouted. "You took her, Jenny! _You took her!"_

Why did that not seem to work both ways?

"I'm her mother. Her _mother_!"

"Why does everyone think that's so much more important?" Gibbs seethed. "Isn't the whole point these days that both parents should do the work?"

No one could ever accuse him of not helping with Natalie, of not loving her, of not playing with her – he'd been involved, when he could, but he had to work – and it wasn't his fault Natalie had lived with Jenny and not him, it wasn't –

"I can't do this anymore, Jethro," she said in his ear, her voice weary, broken. "Get it out of your system. Give me the worst of it. I'm…I'm sorry."

He straightened up, and his arm hung limply at his side.

"Don't apologize to me," he barked. "It's a sign of weakness."

His hands shook slightly – ironically, because of how he was feeling now, he knew he'd never take any steps to take Natalie away from Jen permanently; regardless of what was going on, this wasn't his daughter's fault, and Natalie loved both of them – and maybe Gibbs was the better person, because he'd never want Jenny to feel like he did now over Natalie.

"You can call me if you have leave," Jenny said quietly, an earnest peace offering.

"You know how unlikely that is in the first few years, Jen – if I get it, I can't afford it," he said darkly – and with the shit he'd pulled at first, he was going to be on his commanding officer's blacklist for a hot minute.

She seemed to ignore him; she seemed hollow, resigned.

"Let me know when you want to see her. I won't prevent it."

He felt disbelief. He felt –

Blindsided.

He sat down, stumbling towards the chair, finding the edge. He swallowed.

"You gonna tell me where you live, Jen?" he asked. His eyes flashed. "Where I can send this child support?" he added sarcastically – this money he was being gutted for, that his supervisor wanted him to take care of.

"I don't want the money, Gibbs."

He felt angry at that, too – another way to make him feel like he was shirking his responsibility, like he was Scott free while she was the ever suffering martyr, making all these traumatic decisions –

"You can call her. You can talk to her anytime you want."

The thing was, somehow, all these things she said – about visiting, calling – they felt like threats; they didn't feel sincere, and he sat on the edge of this chair, alone in the barracks, truly uncertain of when he'd next see his daughter.

The thought paralyzed him – he thought of how much he'd missed her while at Basic, and while at Infantry school; of how he'd always gotten through the really nitty gritty nasty parts by knowing he'd be able to see her, and to see Jen, and to relax with them when it was all over – how it all meant something, for them.

Faced with the black hole of what was going to happen, and with Natalie's tiny voice and her laughter and her little whimpers over bee stings echoing in his ears, he couldn't bear to stay on the line one minute longer.

"You know how much that kills me?" he asked, hoping it cut her to the core. "Hearing her?"

He thought he heard her cry out, but he hung up, taking satisfaction in the hard, cold slam of the phone into the cradle.

He picked up his glass; instead of taking a drink, he violently threw it across the room, listening to the shatter, breathing in the smell of sticky, drying whiskey. He sat back in his chair, leaning against the wall, feeling like he was staring nothingness and darkness in the face, wondering how he should proceed now that the deed was done, the monumental phone call executed, the talk – fight, whatever it was – had.

It all felt very overwhelming; it all felt like too much.

He'd been through such a whirlwind of emotion through the past few months – in the past goddamn year, since losing his mother, enlisting, boot camp – the stress and worry of everything, the hope that had just been snatched away from him – what made him angriest was that a tiny flicker in the back of his mind understood Jenny, and he didn't want to understand her, but hadn't he told her point blank that the Marines was what he needed to be happy, and she needed to suck it up and stand by him?

Maybe they were both too young, too, selfish, too untested, too lost.

He turned and put his head down on the table, burying his face in his arms, grabbing the nape of his neck hard and pulling on his hair – he hoped his room mate didn't come back anytime soon; he hoped no one saw him like this – the last time he'd felt this bad, the last time his eyes had hurt so much he couldn't hold back, the last time he'd – _cried_ – he'd been at his mother's funeral, and he'd curled up far away, alone with Natalie, hiding his face in her hair and finding solace in her, instead of in the crook of his own elbow on the unforgiving surface of unaccompanied base housing.

* * *

When he met her at one of the lively piers in Surf city – a resort island not far from Camp Lejeune – Shannon was wearing a loud yellow, barely-there string bikini, a tattered baseball cap, and an over-large gauzy summer sweater as a cover-up.

She laughed at him for showing up in clothes – not just clothes, but clothes that were too warm for the beach in the last days of summer; he wore jeans, a Marine Corps t-shirt, dark sunglasses, and a permanently unreadable, maybe sullen expression. She looked tan and happy; she dragged him down to the beach, where she had her towel and her book and a small umbrella, and she made him sit in the sun with her, showing him things from her bag.

"I got this snow globe in Atlanta, at the Coca-Cola headquarters," she said, shaking it fondly. "See? The Polar bears are so cute."

She set that aside, flipping deftly through post cards. "I haven't sent any of these yet – I keep moving too much; most of them are for my mom and dad – Charleston, Raleigh, Atlanta, Savannah, Richmond, D.C. – um, ooh, the West Virginia Charleston, Columbia – hey, but I got this for you," she handed one over, beaming.

He took it – he still hadn't said much; like the bus ride, he'd just been listening to her talk. The front of the card depicted an iconic shot from Iwo Jima, and the back just had a small smiley face and her signature on it.

"It's from D.C.," she explained. "It was at some souvenir shop near the Viet Nam memorial, and also," she pulled another thing out of her bag. "This."

This time, he took something heavier from her – it was a magnet, he realized, with the Marine Corps hymn on it – every word. He smiled a little, holding the two things in each hand.

"I know it's kind of stupid," Shannon said. "But I thought it might make you smile. Or you can send them to Natalie."

He still looked at the two items, thinking he wouldn't do that – it wouldn't feel right, sending Natalie something some other woman had gotten him. He didn't want to go there, not in a million years – and beside, despite the couple of months it had been since his last conversation – fight – with Jenny…he still didn't know where he was, how he was feeling, on any of that.

"It's not stupid," he said gruffly.

He looked up, furrowing his brow – she'd said something, but he'd spoken over her.

"What?" he asked, waiting for her to repeat herself.

"I said, have you sent her anything?" Shannon asked. She licked her lips. "Natalie. A care package, or – a post card?"

He looked away, shaking his head slowly.

"Nah," he said hoarsely.

He shrugged – it wasn't her birthday, yet, it wasn't Christmas. He didn't know what to send, or what to make of this, how to establish what he wanted.

"Have you – talked to her?" Shannon ventured.

Gibbs turned and looked at her intently, his jaw tight. She bit her lip, and pushed her hair over her shoulders, tipping her hat up a little.

"I – if I'm being too – nosy," she started.

He shrugged again, and shook his head again.

"I called," he said. "Back in July."

Shannon nodded.

"Hmm," she murmured. "After your drunken binging?" she asked sharply.

He dipped his head down, a muscle in his temple twitching. He looked up at the sun, squinting, and then moved his head a little vaguely – yes, at the end of that; yes, after he'd come too close to really screwing everything up. She didn't say anything else for a long time, and he was content with that – he wasn't sure he wanted to talk –

"So what happened?" Shannon asked bluntly.

He smirked tiredly; he should have known she'd ask eventually.

He sighed harshly and rubbed his jaw.

"We broke up," he said heavily.

To his surprise, Shannon snorted. When he gave her a look, she shrugged, and gave him a slightly patronizing one.

"Well what did you think happened?" she asked, as if it were obvious.

She lifted her hand to her lips and chewed on a fingernail carefully, looking down at her bare legs for a moment. She looked out over the ocean, then sat forward, and pulled her bag closer. She reached into it, then stopped, and looked at him.

"Did she ban you from seeing Natalie?" Shannon asked.

Gibbs shrugged.

"No," he said, an edge to his voice.

He started to go on, then stopped. He grit his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and looked over at his companion.

"No," he said again, wary, "but I don't trust what she said, either," he growled tiredly.

Jen had all the legal power.

"So," Shannon said softly, "have you been talking to Natalie?"

Gibbs nodded carefully, his jaw tight. His head felt heavy – he'd called ten days ago, to say hello; Natalie had talked to him as best as she could, distracted as two-year-olds were, and in the background, he'd heard Jenny's mother, and Jenny going on about something in a muffled voice.

It was hard to talk to Natalie. It always ended up making him feel worse – if he'd been okay, not thinking about it, not analyzing it, for a few days – talking to her brought it all back, every single emotion he was trying to deal with – or not deal with. He had to force himself to reach out – and it had to be him, because Jenny sure as hell wasn't initiating.

He felt like he was being tested, and he just couldn't pass; everything was rigged against him.

"It's hard," he said quietly, his voice tight. "Hearin' her voice."

Shannon nodded. She reached over, and rubbed his arm lightly, brushing sand off of him, and providing a light touch of comfort. She hesitated, and then leaned forward, tucking her hair back again.

"I have one more thing for you," she admitted.

He groaned quietly.

"Shannon, quit buyin' me stuff," he growled. It was all cheap tourist stuff, sure, but she didn't need to be – he still didn't understand her, sometimes, why she was checking up on him, being there for him – other than Jenny, he'd never had a friend like that.

"It's not for you, per se," she said primly. She firmly slapped a packet of stationery onto his knee – not frilly, not decorative, but very neat and professional looking – lined paper with bold, Army green lines, and a commanding U.S. eagle seal in the upper corner.

Gibbs looked at it skeptically.

"What the hell's that for?" he asked grudgingly.

"I had an idea," she said cautiously. "You should write to Natalie."

Gibbs looked down at the stationery, and he shook his head a little, giving her a look.

"She can't read – not really," he said, amending halfway through. She wasn't reading like Kindergarteners or like other kids, but Natalie was smarter than most; she definitely recognized words and knew the alphabet. "She's just two."

"But she won't be two forever," Shannon said earnestly. She pushed the packet at him more insistently. "You can say whatever you want. She sent things to you at boot camp," she reminded him.

Gibbs picked up the gift hesitantly, a skeptical look on his face. He grunted, shaking his head.

"You sayin' I should tell her my side or somethin'? Bad mouth her mother?" he asked, bristling a little. "Shannon – look, 'm not sure what Jen's going to tell her, or what she's going to hear, but I'm not gonna – I can't do that – kids aren't a part of parents' bullshit – "

"Believe me, I know," Shannon broke in. "Jethro," she sighed, gnashing her teeth thoughtfully. "I'm not telling you what to say. Or what you _should_ say. I just think it might be cathartic to write to her," she said. "Just…send her letters."

Gibbs frowned, still wary. He wasn't sure – he wasn't good with words.

"What if Jen throws 'em away?"

Shannon considered him a moment.

"Do you think she would?" she asked intently – very seriously, her eyes probing. "Deep down, do you think she would?"

He thought about it, and finally shook his head slowly; no, he didn't think Jen would throw them away – but she sure as hell might read them first, and he was willing to bet if she thought anything was remotely unfair or contrary to what she wanted the narrative to be, then she'd start throwing them away.

He knew Jen better than anyone, and yet not half so well as he'd thought.

Or maybe she was right, and since becoming parents, and how much they'd each privately changed because of it, they didn't really know each other at all, post-Natalie.

"I don't like letters much," he said darkly, heavily – thinking of the one she'd left with his father, for him to read, and to hate.

Shannon flicked up her hat again. She licked her lips, and nodded.

"It's just a thought," she said softly. She was pensively quiet, and then she hugged herself slightly, and ran her hands over her legs. "Don't come close to letting this ruin your career, okay?" she advised.

He didn't need her to tell him that twice, but he was glad she said it anyway. She sighed, chewing on her lip.

"It's such a mess," she admitted. "I'm not gonna remark on Jenny, you know, I don't know her – like I said, I just always thought she was brave," she mused to herself. "I don't know what I think now."

Gibbs looked down at the things in his lap. He snorted quietly.

"She's too brave," he said, with a strange sense of fondness – only a girl with a lot of guts would have run off on her own with a child, with no real direction at all; and simultaneously, only a girl brave enough to be that independent would be chicken enough to face up to the people she hurt in the process.

Gibbs pushed his shoulders back, rubbing one of them – he was sweating in the head, but he didn't want to go back to base – he was relieved to have her for a distraction; weekends were the quietest with nothing to do, weekends were the worst.

"Why'd you come back by here?" he asked gruffly.

She smiled at him, and lifted her shoulders, carefree.

"I wanted a final weekend at the beach, before the next leg of my journey," she said. "I wanted to see with my own eyes that you got your sense back, and you weren't soaked in gin or rum or something."

"Bourbon," he told her seriously.

"Whatever," she retorted. She bit her lip and gave him a sharp look. "You're in a bad place," she said. "I said I'd be your friend. That means checking in."

He smiled a little – he was in a bad place. He didn't know how or when he'd get out if it, if he ever would - but he didn't feel bad today.

"Where to next?" he asked her.

"Well, Mount Rushmore," she said. "Then Chicago, then the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, then Nashville and Memphis, and then I've got some more planning to do."

"You only traveling the states?" he asked.

"I'm not very interested in Europe," she said blithely. "I want to know and see my country – but I'm going to go to Canada, and Mexico, before I pick a place for college."

He nodded slowly.

"Any ideas yet?"

"Oh, I loved Virginia," she sighed. "But…I don't know, maybe I'll go back to Pennsylvania," she said. She laughed, and leaned forward, hugging her knees. "Maybe I'll look up where you are, and see if you still need a friend."

He snorted. Who knows where that could be – he could be in some hellhole with a gun slung over his shoulder; he could be dead, he could be – doing God knows what, whatever the military ordered him to do.

"You know what you're gonna study?" he asked.

"Education," she said blithely. "I want to be a teacher."

He thought she'd probably be a good teacher. She had a knack for knowing when people needed help.

"You're going to get a sunburn, Gibbs," Shannon told him. "You should have worn a hat."

"How'd you know I'm not wearing sunscreen?"

"'Cause, in Stillwater, you always had that burned, dark look to you after working on Crenshaw's farm," she said, with a small laugh. "Like, you weren't quite burned, but your skin had given up in the sun."

He gave her a slightly amused look – why did she remember that; why had she been looking? He leaned back, making sure the things she'd given him stayed in his lap.

"I know it's not until Tuesday," she said wryly, "but I also came back because I didn't want you to spend your birthday alone." When she sensed his surprise, she went on to answer his unspoken question. "I checked your military ID on that long bus ride. So, happy twentieth," she said. "Early twentieth."

He smiled a little. He didn't much care for birthdays, or celebrations, but somehow, he liked that she'd thought about that. Birthdays were always days he took off work for, back in Stillwater – his, so his gift to himself was spending the day with Jen and Natalie – and then Jen's and Natalie's, so he could spend the day with them.

This time, he'd be working; this time, they'd be far away, maybe not even thinking of him. He knew, just instinctually, that for Natalie, he must be out of sight, and out of mind; he couldn't expect a two year old to be vibrantly aware of him, and he couldn't fault her for it, either.

He felt old, but impossibly young at the same time. The only stupid teenage thing he'd ever done was get a girl pregnant, and that was by no means the norm of stupid teenage things – not these days, not in Stillwater.

He wondered what his life would be right now if they'd never had Natalie – even before the baby, they'd talked about running away together when they graduated, but now he saw how strange those talks were – even then, he'd planned on the military, she'd planned on college – would he and Jen had even lasted through her final year, if they'd never had a baby?

He didn't know. He didn't want to speculate on that – but he did know, he did feel, that Natalie hadn't destroyed their relationship, Jen's choice had – and she had a responsibility to him, she should have done what she could to – try and make this work.

She should have tried first. She _should_ have.

He could have been spending his weekends with her and Natalie, moving into their new place, maybe playing some games in a backyard – instead of spending his weekend trying not to get too down, or feeling relieved when a girl he barely knew said she was stopping by for a visit.

"What time do you have to be on duty tomorrow?" Shannon asked.

"Six a.m.," he answered gruffly. He glanced at his watch – he probably needed to head back sometime in the early evening, just so he wasn't out too late – he'd look more like a model Marine to his commanding officer.

The guy was, understandably, watching Gibbs like a hawk.

"You want to get dinner before you go?" Shannon asked. "I can go back to my bed and breakfast and change – nothing fancy, something you can wear a T-shirt for," she suggested.

He looked at her for a moment, his expression not quite readable, and she blushed, wrinkling her nose and rubbing it.

"I just mean – casually," she said, laughing. "Not – like, we'd each pay our own checks," she said, her cheeks reddening again. "Oh my God, Gibbs, stop looking at me like that – Jesus."

"Like what?" he asked, amused at her awkwardness – he'd never seen her be awkward before; someone who'd taken such control of him without hesitation didn't seem the type to get flustered.

"Like," she began, and then turned up her nose. "I can't explain it, you just have a _look_ ," she retorted vaguely. "It's like, you're not hiding anything, but you know everything – it's intimidating, yikes," she muttered, half to herself.

He grinned again, and even laughed a little.

"I could eat," he said, shrugging – he didn't mind hanging around, and he hadn't needed clarification; he knew she meant just a casual dinner – no girl in their right mind would ask him out right now, and he was – well, feelings like the ones he'd had for Jenny didn't just – evaporate, no matter how angry she made him.

Shannon sat forward, and she started to gather up her things.

"I think I want to find some fish and chips somewhere," she said lightly, tossing her towel over her shoulder – she handed him her book to hold while she hooked her flip flops onto her feet. He handed it back to her when she gestured, and she turned to him, hugging it to her chest. She looked at him for such a long time, he finally rolled his eyes a little.

" _What_?" he growled.

"I'm going to write to you, send you postcards," she said quietly. She hesitated. "Like…a pen pal. So you always have something…" she trailed off a little. "If you ever feel…really – bad," she said slowly. "Just – I'm trying to say, I'd be there, if you needed a person to – talk to. I just want you to tell me if you're – "

"What?" he asked again.

"Depressed, Jethro," she said finally, her voice dully.

He started to scoff, but he stopped; he gave her a wary look. She sighed, and pushed her hair behind her ears, adjusting her cap.

"The look on your face, lately, and at the bus stop – my Uncle used to get it, okay?" she explained. "It started to never go away. And then he killed himself. He had a pretty brutal time in Viet Nam…I used to write him letters. I used to make him smile. But he killed himself anyway."

She chewed on her lip lightly.

"I just didn't like the look on your face," she confessed. "It reminded me of him. And no one saw it."

Gibbs folded his arms protectively, and shrugged a little. He tilted his head.

"'M – that's not gonna happen," he said boldly.

"People always say that," she answered sharply. "I'm just…saying," she went on. "I think you spent a lot of time being other people's rock," she said, a little edgily. "Stillwater's so…small – I know about your mom, I know people backed off Jennifer Shepard because of you – and my parents think I'm really fragile, but I'm not. I can be a rock."

He looked at her a long time. He reached up and scratched the back of his head anxiously – maybe because he didn't like her sensing how bad he was, under the surface; maybe because he appreciated the reaching out – he didn't know about her, he didn't understand her.

He half-thought she had a crush on him, because he had a baby, like all those other teenage girls who foolishly thought a man with a baby was so sexy.

"Dinner," he said, brushing off her heartfelt statement.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then smiled, and nodded, turning, pointing, and leading the way to her bed and breakfast so she could change.

"Where do you want your first post card from?" she asked brightly.

He walked beside her, hands in his pockets, and smiled a little tiredly to himself – there she went off talking again, distracting him, and he lazily thought about how he wanted to answer – because he didn't want to admit his real answer, the first thing that had come to mind – that he wanted a post card from California, and it wanted it to say she regretted it, and it was all a huge mistake.

* * *

In an off-base studio apartment with the barest of furnishings – a single Marine didn't need much – Gibbs sat on the floor leaning against his couch, using a thick, beaten up copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice as a desk as he scratched out the finishing touches of Natalie's Christmas letter.

He didn't send her letters very often…but after a lot of thought, and too many painful, difficult phone conversations – painful because he missed her, difficult because she was two, she was easily distracted, and hard to engage with without being present – he had sent one along with her birthday gift in November, and he had decided to mail one with her Christmas present, too.

It was Christmas Eve, and he knew he was late on getting the package put together and sent – but he was going to express mail it, so it would get there ASAP – before New Year's. He'd been busy with things lately – performance reviews, hearings for some new recruits who needed some sense knocked into them –and putting his name in for a promotion.

Professionally, he was back on track; after such a rough start, he'd found if he channeled everything he couldn't control – everything he couldn't handle or figure out emotionally – into dedication to the Corps, he could impress his commanding officer and set himself on the right track –

The track to sniper school, he hoped; sniper school, if he played his cards right and got lucky in a few years – there was a Sniper Academy at Quantico, but he was quietly aiming to be sent to Pendleton, in California, because then he felt he could establish a – well, he'd be close to Natalie, and maybe – he had it in his head he could get things right, then; at least do his part, regardless of Jen.

He didn't like thinking about her – he'd only spoken to her once since July, every other time Melanie Shepard had answered – and when he had spoken to her, it had been to ask, seriously, how she felt about child support, and when she'd again told him she didn't want it, he'd told her to make arrangements with Jasper so the courts wouldn't come after him, and then he'd had to have a cool, uncomfortable conversation with the Chief about it.

The Chief had been less than happy about the decision, but Gibbs didn't give a damn; Jasper could take that up with his daughter. Gibbs had plans for that monthly allotment that he didn't have any intention of sharing with his could-have-been father-in-law.

Gibbs hesitated on the last line – he never knew what to say to Natalie; he didn't know if Jenny was reading them, or tossing them, and he didn't want to ask – and he knew Natalie herself couldn't read yet, so he didn't know what level to write at. They were usually very generic – but he always ended with telling her that he loved her, and including his current phone number – or at least, he planned to do that, when it started changing a lot with permanent changes of station, and deployments.

He wrote his name, drew an insect over the 'I' in her name, and then folded up the piece of paper and slid it into an envelope. He pulled the box of Christmas goodies towards him, and tucked the letter in between a thick Jungle-themed colouring book and a new copy of _Goodnight, Moon._

He paused, looking at the contents – for her birthday, he'd sent her a Cabbage Patch Kid and his dog tags, which he hoped Jen took as a subtle message – Marines used dog tags to mark their territory; since Jen didn't want them, he made sure Natalie had them.

For Christmas, he'd decided to get her another Cabbage Patch doll – apparently they were collectibles – the colouring book, the children's book, a lot of bumble bee and butterfly stickers, some of those little plastic barrettes, and a thick new hair ribbon. He'd also included a Marine Corps t-shirt, a post card from Camp Lejeune and –

Well, he was considering putting in a picture of him – it was a spare he'd gotten, from when he'd had to apply for a passport in case the Marines deployed him suddenly. It was an oddly formal picture, but he didn't want her to forget what he looked like, and he doubted Jenny had pictures of him around.

He half-wanted to fly out there and take this stuff himself, make Jenny put her money where her mouth was and see if she was really going to let him see his daughter whenever he asked, as she said – but he hadn't been able to get leave, and a flight to California was – it was so expensive, he'd be recovering for two paychecks.

A little part of him was too wary, too scared, to go out there, anyway; his skin was hardening so much it was becoming a shell – he was afraid of what he'd face, and that might make him a coward or a bastard – he didn't know, but when it really started to nettle him, and he really started to feel bad, he always just resorted to blaming it on Jen.

He pulled the spare passport photo out of his pocket and looked at it, frowning thoughtfully. He looked so stern in it – military uniform, all but the hat, and cold blue eyes. He didn't look at himself often, but for a moment he remembered his eyes and Natalie's eyes were the same – and he relished that.

Indecisive, he set it aside, and thought maybe he'd add it later – or maybe he wouldn't. He'd rather Natalie didn't have a picture of him that looked so—stoic and posed. Maybe Jenny was keeping photos out.

He checked his watch, leaning back against his couch – that was all his apartment had, really; a couch, a bare-bones kitchen, two blankets, a pillow and handfuls of stuff he'd somehow accumulated…but it wasn't real apartment, with a human touch. He just slept on the couch; he didn't really miss a bed, and the couch felt more like the boot camp bunks he'd gotten so used to.

He stretched out to a small table beside the couch, and he grabbed the phone, pulling it towards him. He untangled the cord, and dialed a number he knew by heart – the post office would be closed tomorrow, and he'd take the package the next day, but he'd already decided to call tonight and on the actual holiday, just to make a point.

He'd waited until it was well after dinner in California, so no one would have an excuse not to answer the phone.

It rang a couple of times, and then, to his surprise – it wasn't Melanie who answered, and usually, it was. Gibbs had a sneaking suspicion that Jenny always made Melanie answer the phone, just in case it was him.

"Hello?" Jenny said quietly.

Gibbs blinked, taken aback. He cleared his throat gruffly.

"It's me," he said, his voice a little dull.

"Oh," she said softly. He heard some shuffling around, and the crinkling of paper. "Hi, Jethro," she said.

That surprised him, too, because usually just went to hand the phone straight to Natalie.

"Hi," he answered finally. The pleasantry felt so absurd and out of place that he grimaced; he felt like he'd given her some ground or something.

"Natalie," Jenny started cautiously, "is in bed."

He snorted.

"It's not even eight there, Jen," he said, an edge to his voice – if she was going to start not giving his child the phone –

"I know," she placated. "We went ice skating today. She fell asleep during _The Year Without a Santa Claus,"_ she explained.

He lowered the phone from his face for a moment and held it against his shoulder – he'd been waiting to call her all day. He took a deep breath, and put the phone back to his ear.

"Can you wake her up?" he asked.

"I am _not_ waking her up."

"I won't talk to her long," he bargained. "She'll go right back – "

"It's a miracle she's asleep now, Jethro, do you know how hard it is to get a three-year-old to sleep on Christmas Eve?"

He shrugged to himself.

"No," he answered coldly. "How would I?"

She sighed.

"You can call her tomorrow," she suggested.

"I am callin' her tomorrow," he retorted seriously. "I want to talk to 'er, Jen, I waited to call 'cause you always ignore the phone during dinner, even when you know damn well –"

"That's absurd, Jethro, I don't ignore you on purpose – it's not like the phone tells you who's calling – "

"I called right before bedtime, I know when her bedtime is – "

"You know what, _fine_ , I'll go wake her up – I'll go _wake up_ a sleeping toddler so you can prove yourself to her – "

"Goddamnit, Jen, it's _Christmas_ Eve, I just want to talk to my kid before I go to bed wonderin' why I'm puttin' her presents in a box instead of under her tree."

He waited for the heavy sigh that would come from her, and she didn't disappoint. She was quiet, and then he heard shuffling again – a door opening, a whispered word –

"I'm fine, Mom."

\- and then soft murmurs.

"Who is it? Is it _Santa_?"

Gibbs held the phone closer to his ear, and he heard a groggy, thick little voice.

"Santa?"

He smiled to himself, biting the inside of his cheek a moment.

"Nah, no luck, Bug," he said gently. "It's Daddy."

She made a sleepy noise; it sounded like she was yawning.

"Oh, _hi_ , Daddy," she said conversationally, her voice still sluggish. "I was sleeping," she informed him sweetly.

"I know; I'm sorry," he said seriously. "I couldn't go to sleep without talking to you," he confessed simply.

"Daddy need lullaby?" she asked considerately.

He smirked.

"You want to sing to me?"

"Yes," she yawned.

"What are you going to sing?" he asked.

"Hmm," she murmured into the phone, her voice faraway, but somehow close, at the same time. "Issy-bissy- spider," she suggested.

He nodded to himself, swallowing hard.

"I like that song," he told her.

She mumbled something incoherently, and he heard her take a deep breath.

"The – issy-bissy _spyyyyder_ climbed – up, the water – pout," she began seriously, stumbling sleepily through the song as she recalled the words.

Gibbs swallowed hard, listening to her sing. He wished he could be sitting there next to her, reading her a book, or kissing her forehead before he left the room, tucking her in; but this was all he had, and this had to do—and now he felt bad; she sounded so sleepy, that a surge of guilt struck him for bullying Jenny into waking her up just so he could feel – less alone.

"Daddy?" she piped up.

"Hmm?" he asked.

"I forgot words," she confessed. "Daddy, Santa comes if I sleep," she told him.

"I know," he agreed. "Hey, I'm sending you some things, too," he told her. "They'll be a little late – I missed Santa, when he stopped by to pick them up," he said seriously. "I was workin'. But I'm gonna send 'em on my own. Got you some little treats."

She laughed – he imagined her wrinkling up her nose, furrowing her small brow.

"I didn't forget about you," he promised. "I won't. Ever."

"Thank you," she said sweetly. He heard her yawn again, and he felt like she was waking up more – that was probably a nightmare for Jenny, but he didn't particularly care. "Where are you?" she said suddenly.

"I'm," he began. "I'm still in North Carolina," he said hoarsely. "With the Marines. _Semper Fi_ , remember?"

"Memmer Fi," she agreed childishly. "Daddy, I'm sleepy," she said.

"It's okay," he told her. "You can go back to sleep. You can put the phone right next to your ear until you're back asleep. Pretend I'm kissing you goodnight, like I used to, okay?" he suggested tensely.

He clenched his teeth – God, he missed her so much.

"Okay," she agreed. "Night-night, Da Da," she said.

"Night-night, Bug," he answered.

He heard her shuffle around, and then a small, sleepy whine –

"No – _NO_ , Mommy, he stay 'til I go to sleep."

-and he smiled, imagining Jen standing there, her arms folded, doomed to waiting until Natalie was back breathing evenly to return to whatever she'd been doing.

Apparently, it didn't take long.

"She knocked right out again," Jenny said quietly, clearly sneaking out of the room. "Which means she'll be up at five a.m."

Gibbs looked down at his hands, not saying anything. He resented Jenny for not answering, for avoiding him like the plague, but he also hated talking to her; he always felt the unbearable urge to start yelling at her again, to start demanding she get her ass back to where she was supposed to be, but it was futile – and the thought of fighting her was exhausting, when he knew he'd lose.

Talking to her always made him feel…inadequate. She made him feel that way – he thought it was genuinely unintentional on her part, but she had to know, on some level, that taking Natalie away like this – choosing to live like this – had to have made him question every confidence he'd had in himself as a father and provider.

"Jethro?" she asked nervously, bothered by his silence. "I don't – I don't want to just hang up on you," she said warily. "Are you there?"

"I'm here," he answered heavily.

There was – so much he wanted to say, so much he could say – and maybe not all of it was bad, maybe because of the holiday, in particular, he really wanted to just plead with her, beg with her, make her commit to at least trying it – maybe if he forced her to envision a world where someone had taken Natalie from _her_ , she'd understand.

But he couldn't find the words; he was too proud to find the words. He just closed his eyes and rubbed his head hard, trying to scrub out the dark feelings, and trying to pound out the aching and the emotions.

Tomorrow he'd get up and go to work and spend a week or maybe two forgetting all this, until it was time to work up the stoicism and the courage to call again, and talk to Natalie – it was such a vicious cycle, recovering from how hard it was to talk to her, spending several weeks in a bliss of work-induced exhaustion and detachment, and then talking to her and spending days trying to resist doing something ultimately self-destructive.

He took a deep, slow breath.

"Jethro, I want to – well," she broke off. She sighed. "Merry Christmas," she said feebly, though he did sense she meant it.

It just – for some reason, the sentiment just pissed him off; how could she dare wish him a happy holiday, when she had to know it was going to be anything but – how was he supposed to have a Merry Christmas, when he was taking a holiday shift no one else wanted because they all had families to be there for.

He clutched the phone tightly in his hand, hitting his teeth together hard—he just, in that moment, wanted to make her feel as bad as he did, because she made him feel weak, and he didn't like that; he'd always been the strong one, the one made of steel.

"Go to hell, Jen," he answered shortly.

The moment he hung up, he felt bad about it—somewhere, deep down on some hidden level, he acknowledge again and again that Jenny wasn't being malicious or spiteful, she wasn't reveling in his pain or misery, she had genuinely done what she thought she needed to – she was genuinely trying to save herself from despair, and while that was selfish in some respects, he also could be grudgingly aware of the fact that she'd never been a good mother if she was unhappy all the time – it was a miracle his own mother had been such a saint, what with how less than satisfied she was.

But Jenny and Ann weren't the same woman; they hadn't been raised the same kind of way – and there might be something to Jenny's claim that while Ann had been alive, she'd held them all together, but once she was gone – Jenny lost the one person who was driving her to be that kind of old-fashioned, mouth-shut, do-your-duty woman.

It was all so…confused; it was all such a mess.

Gibbs put the phone down heavily and shoved it away, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard his vision blackened. He wanted a drink, but he didn't have anything in the apartment – good; he was keeping it at arm's length, just in case. He thought – his commanding officer had made a comment last week about him going out and finding some uniform-chasing girl to get him over this 'flighty broad' as he called Jenny – but even when the thought, or the desire, flared, Gibbs hesitated; he refrained.

He'd only ever been with Jenny, and when you were with the same girl from fifteen to nineteen, the thought of seeking other women was terrifying – he didn't know what to do with them, how to be with them – everything about meeting Jenny, and knowing Jenny, and dating someone in Stillwater, even, was different.

He'd never thought of himself as a needy person, but then, now when he thought back on it, he'd always had Jenny – but he'd always thought she needed him, and perhaps in a roundabout way, he was needy in that way – he liked being there for someone, he liked being someone's rock, or someone's – something; he'd liked how his mother always needed him to cheer her up – he liked – Gibbs liked being _useful_.

He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, uncertain if he could sleep – he hadn't done anything all day, nothing to make him tired enough to shut off his brain – nothing that would chase away his mood or make him able to just – hit the hay, no screaming memories or ruminations.

With that dull realization thrumming in his mind, he reached for the phone again – and his fingers hesitated on the dial.

For a strange moment, he thought about calling his father.

But his brow darkened; that would only lead to more fighting – hell, he'd talked to his father once since he'd left Stillwater, and somehow Jackson had seemed to blame Gibbs for this – somehow, Jackson always made everything Gibbs fault.

His fingers stumbled hesitantly – he knew the number she'd given him last time, but he wasn't sure if she'd moved on since then, if she'd decided to do Christmas in New York City or if she had actually gone home to see her parents –

"Hello?"

His shoulders sagged, and he felt a small rush of relief – if nothing else, maybe she could talk about something innocuous and uninteresting to him, and that way he could focus on it without caring, and try to turn his brain off.

"Shannon," he greeted gruffly.

"Evenin', Jarhead," she answered smoothly. "Did you know if you knock a sailor's cover off, he has to kiss you? Because I got quite the surprise when I accidentally did so in the subway," she told him, right off the bat. "How are we tonight, Gibbs?" she asked.

Her voice was wry, intent – she knew it was a holiday; she knew, not because he'd told her, but because she'd sensed from how dull and heavy his voice was a few phone calls ago, how badly the holidays could affect him.

"Not good," he admitted gruffly.

He closed his eyes, and rubbed his temple hard again – it wasn't _depression_ that affected him, not really – not like Shannon thought, not like she was afraid of. He knew – he'd been evaluated, at his superior's request, by a doctor – and they'd cleared him, said he didn't have the right symptoms – but despite the fact that he knew he could cope if he tried harder, and once he got better direction going – once he got into a harder MOS – this funk he was in felt pretty damn close, sometimes.

Shannon started to talk about something, true to her word, and he let his head fall back against the couch again, listening without really listening – this year was almost over; a week and this year would be over, and he could put it behind him – in September, his mother had been dead a year, and there was a time when he'd thought nothing would ever rival that pain, though his time in the Marines had helped him heal and recover, knowing he was leaving Stillwater with Jenny and Natalie soon – he thought if he could get through the end of this year, he could just start a new one – because if anything, the past six months had proved he didn't have a damn clue what was going to happen in his life, and nineteen eighty-eight had the potential to be – well, he didn't know what, but he could get his head on straight, and he could figure out what he was going to do.

* * *

"She said she loved me  
but she had somewhere to go."  
-The Killers; Jenny Was a Friend of Mine

* * *

 _-feedback appreciated ! :)_  
 _-alexandra_

_story #267_


	2. All the Pretty Faces

_a/n: - so, as a refresher: in_ Shepard Girls _, after 1987 {chapter one}, the story skips right to Natalie in Kindergarten, and a mention of Gibbs having seen Natalie once 'before then.' On a beach, when he was at Sniper school. This chapter begins with that scene, except here you see it, rather than just get a mention of it ! {see how the stories are weaving together!}_

* * *

Camp Pendleton, California; Monterey, California; Stuttgart, Germany; Kuwait: 1989-1991

All the Pretty Faces

* * *

He sat on a bench, nervous. His foot dug tensely into the sand, and he felt silly for wearing military boots on the beach – but he didn't have long, and she said this was the best day for her work schedule. He couldn't shake how anxious he felt, and that made a dull anger simmer under his skin – no man should feel this uncertain about seeing his daughter.

He should be thrilled; he should feel lighthearted and relieved, but he just felt wary – he hadn't seen Natalie in – since – it was pushing the end of nineteen eighty-nine, so she'd been two and a half the last time he'd seen her; she was five, now – she was starting Kindergarten in September.

He was worried he wouldn't recognize her. Jenny's version of letting him be as involved as he wanted didn't seem to include sending pictures or giving her own updates.

He sat back, rubbing his jaw, and looking around. It was a ritual, had been for the past fifteen minutes – he was very early – he'd look around sharply, then look back down and spend a few minutes staring hard at his hands, wondering what he was going to say, or how this was going to go.

He'd brought a few things for her, a new hair bow, a new letter – sealed – and a new stuffed animal that was supposed to be in high demand come Christmas – he'd had the opportunity to get it early; thank God for the military. He only hoped it was something Natalie would be interested in.

He checked the bag next to him, making sure the gift was safe, and then he looked to his left and his right – and this time, he spotted them; Jenny had Natalie by the hand, and she looked like she'd already seen him, so he didn't need to wave her over – he stuck out like a sore thumb, in Marine fatigues, anyway.

He started to stand, but then he sat back down, thinking maybe he'd make Natalie less nervous – if she didn't recognize him – if he wasn't so big. He squeezed his hands together between his knees and then turned as they approached, Natalie kicking up sand as she hopped along next to Jenny, her small fingers entwined with her mother's.

Gibbs clenched his jaw, unsure what to say, his eyes on Natalie.

"Hi, Jethro," Jenny said cautiously, her voice guarded; Gibbs was still looking only at Natalie, though, and he saw Jenny loosen her grip and very gently shake Natalie loose a bit.

He got up and knelt down in the sand, eye-level with her. He put his hand out, and swallowed hard.

"Bug," he said, his voice quiet.

She stepped closer, and looked at his hand. She arched an eyebrow in a funny little way. She smiled fetchingly, and reached out and touched the tips of his fingers, holding onto them.

"Hi," she answered.

"Natalie," Jenny said. She folded her arms protectively across her own chest. "It's Daddy."

Natalie looked up at her and blinked thoughtful blue eyes.

"I know who it is, Mommy," she said solemnly. She looked back to Gibbs, and he reached forward with confidence, grabbing her gently and sweeping her up into a bear hug, turning his back to Jenny and wrapping his arms around her tightly.

He grinned, pressing his forehead into her shoulder. He leaned back, putting his hand on the back of her head and tilting her head back carefully.

"You know who it is, huh?" he asked, teasing her. He brushed his fingers against her ribs, and she giggled, grabbing his hand. She nodded primly. He hugged her again, taking a deep breath, and he pulled back and kissed her cheek paternally, just holding her there in his arms, staring at her. "You sure?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Daddy," she said smartly. She put her hands together. "Your voice…comes on the phone," she told him.

"Oh, you know my voice?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded, putting her hands under her chin cutely. She scrunched up her nose.

"Think I saw you more, when I was teeny," she told him.

He brushed her hair back – it was so long, and dark, a very shimmery auburn-brown, like his mother's – like his, and his mother's, more than like Jenny's sharp, vibrant red – he was glad Jenny hadn't cut it, she looked like a little fairy princess.

He nodded.

'Think you're right," he agreed, looking over her. "You're not teeny."

She held up her hand.

"I'm five," she told him conversationally. "I go to pre-school sometimes. I can read books," she added. "You sent me the moon book," she said. "I like the moon book."

" _Goodnight, Moon_?" He asked, mesmerized. He couldn't believe she was talking like this – this was so different, from the child he knew, the little toddler who was just barely stringing together sentences that made sense.

Natalie was nodding again.

"It got Mommy's coffee on it," she said. "But I still read it."

With that, Gibbs suddenly remembered Mommy – Jenny – was there, and he turned around, his hand pressed gently on Natalie's back, looking about. She was still standing, though she'd moved closer to the bench, and she had her fingers pressed warily to her lips – she looked uncertain, awkward; he swallowed hard, feeling like he should say something to her.

Then again, he also didn't feel particularly concerned about her feelings.

"She's good at talkin'," he said lamely.

Jenny smiled carefully. She nodded.

"She's very good," she agreed hoarsely. "She can say lots of big words, can't you, Bug?"

Natalie tugged on Gibbs' collar for his attention.

"Photosynthesis," she said promptly.

He smiled at her proudly.

"What's that mean?" he asked, with serious interest.

"Plant food," she said, somewhat rudimentary.

"Natalie," Jenny said, "what were you going to say to Daddy?"

"Oh," she said sweetly. She touched his nametag, picking at the Velcro with a curious expression.

"Don't mess with Daddy's uniform," Jenny ordered tensely.

Gibbs waved a hand at her sharply.

"She can do what she wants," he snapped, without thinking of how it would look or sound to Natalie. Jenny's eyes narrowed, but he ignored her. "What were you going to say to me?"

"I liked my birthday present," she said, looking at him shyly. "I played it all the time."

He'd sent her a small tape player and two tapes full of popular Disney music, and he had been so unsure it was the kind of thing she cared about. He was glad to hear that she liked it – Shannon had insisted she would – and he smiled at her, arching his brows.

"Would you like another present?" he asked conspiratorially.

Natalie gasped, and nodded. He sat down on the bench, holding her on his lap – she was bigger, and it was hard for him to adjust to; she was still light to him, and easy to carry, but he remembered her feeling more like a baby – this Natalie wasn't helpless, this was a _kid,_ and he didn't know anything about her.

"Mommy," Natalie said, turning to her. "Daddy said he got me a thing."

"Did he?" Jenny asked, her voice strained. "Hmm, and it's not even Christmas," she said.

Natalie snickered.

"Maybe it's a Pilgrim present," she said, eyes sparkling. "Like Squanto gave the Pilgrims."

Jenny didn't say anything, and Gibbs sensed that she was displeased. He ignored it, and pulled out the bow, showing it to Natalie. She sighed happily and took it, running the silk through her fingers.

"You put it in, please," she said, turning. She climbed off of his lap and sat next to him, peeking in the bag.

Hesitantly, he took the ribbon, his face falling a little – he had never known how to do her hair; he was always working, and Jen or Ann had always done it. He swallowed, not wanting to disappoint Natalie – not now, when he felt like every move was so much more important than ever, because he wanted to seem _perfect_ to her, in her memory.

Jenny wordlessly stepped around and gathered up some of Natalie's hair, standing perilously close to Gibbs as she gently kept from pulling or tangling and tied up half of the little girl's soft waves into the ribbon, neatly tying it off and stepping away.

Her hand brushed Gibbs' shoulder briefly, and to his surprise, he had to fight the urge to shake her off – she removed it too quickly for him to actually do it – and that caught him off guard, because he hadn't realized he still felt that hostile towards her.

Things had become much more – scarred, and – fixed – so to speak, when it came to his feelings about the situation; it was routine, and he might not like it, but he'd stopped having to force himself through every day just to make it to the next morning alive.

Natalie pulled out a letter, and gave it to Jenny.

"Box," she said.

Gibbs turned sharply.

"Box?" he asked.

Jenny, examining the sealed letter, looked at him carefully.

"I've been keeping them in a box for her," she said softly. "She couldn't read all the other ones." She tucked this one in her purse and smiled. "I don't read them," she added, as if she'd read his mind.

He shrugged.

"I was more worried about you throwin' 'em away," he said callously.

Her face fell.

"Jethro – " she started.

Natalie interrupted with a shriek of delight. She leapt off the bench, clutching something tightly, and then she thrust her arms out, showing the fluffy, formidable new toy to her mother.

"Mommy!" she squealed. " _Mommy_ , LOOK!"

She pressed the appropriate button, and the fancy toy's lashes fluttered, and he said –

" _Beary Smiles loves you!"_

Natalie threw herself at Gibbs' knees.

"But _Daddy_ – but they're all _sold_ ," she said, breathless. "Even on the dark Friday, Melly said no one can get one – "

Gibbs grinned, swinging her up into his lap again.

"I got one," he said smugly.

They had them at the exchanges on base – tons, set aside and reserved as a special treat for military children, to make their holidays easier – Gibbs had waited in line to get one, knowing he was going to see Natalie in person, and wanting it to be memorable – he couldn't wait to send it on Christmas.

"I love him," Natalie said. "Mommy, look," she said again. "Daddy got BEARY!"

"I see him, honey," Jenny said, she turned slightly, and gave Gibbs a look. "Why did you get her that?" she asked, under her breath.

Natalie slid of the bench, sitting Beary Smiles on it and touching her nose to his adorably.

"You can get married to my cabbage kid," she told it seriously.

Gibbs gave Jenny a tense look.

"Knew she'd like it – "

"It's _not_ Christmas or her birthday – those things cost a fortune, you're spoiling her – "

"I don't give a damn how much it costs; I don't have anything else I'm spendin' money on," he said nastily, keeping his voice down.

Natalie looked at them. Jenny put her hand on her jaw.

"Nat, can you go play by the ocean for a minute?" she asked, tense.

Natalie took Beary with her, and Jenny looked pissed about that, too, but Natalie just held him tightly and looked around for – seashells, or something. Jenny turned to Gibbs, her face flushed.

"I couldn't have afforded that for her – I didn't even think I could get one, and you come along, and you're just the guy bringing her expensive gifts – "

"I'm her father, Jen, I'm not just _the guy_ – what the hell do you _expect_ me to do, I never see her, I can't afford to fly back and forth to see her, least I can do is – "

"It feels like you're trying to bribe her into liking you better, or, undermining me – "

"Bullshit, Jenny," he growled, cutting her off. His jaw tightened, and a muscle in his temple flinched. "You aren't gonna make me feel guilty about finally getting to see her," he barked.

Jenny pushed her hair back, closing her eyes heavily. They were red when she reopened them, and she took a deep breath.

"I just don't know how to handle this situation, Jethro, it's uncharted waters, and I'm afraid of her getting hurt – "

"Figure it out," he said coldly. "This is your problem."

He turned sharply, kicking up sand, and went to catch up to Natalie. She looked up at him, holding up some seaweed.

"I love this stuff," she said. "It makes Mommy _scream_.'

"Doesn't look so scary," Gibbs said gruffly, crouching down.

Natalie wiggled it, and put it on his shoulder. He grinned at her, unperturbed, and patted Beary on the head.

"He might stop talking if he gets wet," Gibbs warned. "You better let Mommy hold him."

"Are you leaving?" Natalie asked, worried.

"Not just yet," Gibbs promised.

He straightened, and watch Natalie run and give Beary Smiles to her mother to hold. Jenny sat down on the bench with the bear, looking faraway, nervous, and conflicted, and for a moment Gibbs wished he was anywhere but here – somehow, he knew everything would be worse when he got back to the Pendleton barracks tonight, just for having seen them in the flesh.

Natalie scampered back, and she pointed to the ocean.

"Are you afraid of crabs?" she asked.

"No, I'm not afraid," he promised.

She beamed, and splashed into the water.

"Ooh, there's teeny _minnow_ fish – Daddy," she laughed, " _look_!"

He waded in next to her without a care for his socks, boots, or uniform pants, and he watched her point out the creatures, not even bothered when she splashed him or accidentally threw seaweed at him.

He picked her up at one point, and waded out further, dangling her feet over the crashing waves. She plastered herself to him.

"You're – oh no, big wave – no, Daddy, you got wet – I pulled your hair, I'm sorry, oh no – "

"It's okay," he soothed, laughing. He stumbled back – they'd both got drenched by that last wave – and tugged on his own short hair hard. "I'm tough, see, you can't hurt me."

She scrambled up towards his shoulders anyway, and kissed his hair apologetically. He gave her a hug, and let her slide down, standing near where the waves broke. She crouched down and picked up a small white crab, reaching up and putting it in his hand.

"It's a sand spider," she said. "Mommy calls it sand bug. Like me. Bug," she giggled, scrunching up her nose. "But really it is a crust-a-cean," she pronounced smartly.

Gibbs let the little thing crawl around in his hand, moving away from the water, and back onto the bank. He sat down, and let it crawl on his uniform. Natalie bent forward and watched; something clinked against his knee.

He looked down, and gently touched – his dog tags, dog tags he'd sent her two years ago. They had bite marks on them.

"Oh this is my necklace," Natalie said. "It has your name on it," she said it so matter-of-factly, and before Gibbs could answer, she turned. "Mommy," she said – and she didn't say it loudly, so Gibbs knew Jenny must have come up closer. "I put a sand spider on Daddy and he didn't scream and yell at me."

Jenny flushed, conflicted.

"I don't – _yell_ at you, Natalie, I just – they scare me, but I'm not screaming at _you,"_ she explained, half-heartedly. "Natalie," she said, apologetic. "I have to go to work. Melly's waiting to take you to that roller blading place."

Natalie turned to Gibbs.

"Are you coming home with me?" she asked.

He swallowed hard, trying not to let her see his shoulders or his face fall.

"No, Bug," he said bravely. "I got to – I got to go do Marine things, got to work," he said. He flicked the dog tags gently. "Keepin' you and the world safe," he said, with a small wink.

Natalie turned to Jenny.

"When is he coming again?"

Jenny didn't say anything.

"I got a lot of hard training," Gibbs said. "But I'm gonna try to see you, Bug, I – "

"Natalie, there's something in my purse for Daddy – the green envelope, will you get it?" Jenny interrupted.

Natalie smiled, and went off, trudging towards the bench. Gibbs got off, brushing sand of, and Jenny stepped closer.

"Don't make her any promises," she warned.

Gibbs gave her a hard look.

"I want to see her when I can," he said aggressively. "Pendleton's only an hour away – and you said – "

"I know what I said; I never intended to keep her from you," she placated. She took a shaky breath. "This is – this is scary, I'm afraid she'll get confused, or she'll start – I don't know, it's already hard with phone calls, sometimes she forgets for a while, and then to her times she wants to know why you only call randomly – "

"Sounds like you're blamin' me for something, Jen," he said dangerously.

She pushed her hair back, her hands shaking.

" _No_ , I just – you can see her, you can," she said – but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "If you could just – work out a schedule – "

"Custody?"

"No, Jethro," she hissed. "I mean so it's – stable, and we know where we are –

"It'd just be easier on you if I dropped off the face of the planet, wouldn't it, Jen?" he asked coldly. "Hell of a lot easier than staring me in the face and havin' to answer her questions – I can't give you a damn schedule," he said, "and you – goddamnit, you know that."

"Sniper school is demanding, but you could – determine weekends – "

"I got duty on weekends; school doesn't get me off the hook from bein' a Marine," he snapped.

Her eyes flicked over him, telling him she was fully aware of his Marine presence – it was certainly in her face, and commanding.

He stared this woman down – this girl who he'd been with for so long, who had once seemed to be his entire teenage world – and he felt a sinking feeling; he felt like she'd make excuses, he felt like she'd make this hard – he felt like she couldn't do this, and frankly, if every time he saw Natalie he had to see Jen, and he had to fight her, and he had to suffer the same sharp, debilitating emotions he'd felt when she first left – he didn't know if he could do it, either.

Ethereal, magical moments in the ocean aside, they still had problems – and a lot of them came from his military career, and the whole reason she'd run in the first place.

Natalie came up, leaning into Jenny.

"Are you mad at each other?" she asked.

"No," they both said heavily.

Jenny's voice cracked. He watched her take the envelope from Natalie, and hand it to him gingerly.

"It's photos," she said. "Birthdays, Halloween," she said. "I made sure you got the really good ones."

He held the envelope limply, feeling hollow. He just nodded curtly, swallowing hard – his brow furrowed; was this going to work? He'd transferred to Pendleton, to Sniper School – finally having achieved that, and even gotten his requested location – with all these high hopes – he'd somehow thought it would be easy to just – pick up, again, with him working, and then spending all his free time with Natalie.

But – that wasn't going to work, was it? He had a life, he had responsibilities, his life belonged to the Corps; and she had a life, too; Natalie had things, Jenny had work – this wasn't Stillwater, this wasn't high school, and they weren't two teenagers alone in the world against a town of conservative gossips and their parents.

They were coming to their own, in completely different ways.

"I really do have to go to work," Jenny said softly, her voice unsteady. She stroked Natalie's hair. "Jethro, I – we're doing – we're okay, out here, we're safe, and she's good so I just – no promises you can't keep," she warned, tired.

He swallowed, and he nodded – he wouldn't do that, and he understood her; he wanted his daughter to be happy, and unburdened by their conflict, and he wanted her to have a stable environment, but it was just – it was so monumentally unfair that Jenny's decision to leave him, to move away, was putting him in this position – would she dare act like this if they'd gotten married like they were supposed to, and he was deployed?

Would she call it unstable, and uncertain, then?

Jenny had crouched down, and said something gently to Natalie. Natalie nodded, brushing her off gently, and stepped forward. She hooked her little finger into a bracelet at Gibbs' wrist.

"What's this?" she asked.

It was a pink and red ribbon bracelet, braided – a trinket, something Shannon had learned to make; before she'd gone to college, she'd gone on a cruise to Jamaica with some friends, and made herself this; when he'd left for Pendleton, she'd given it to him for luck and – perhaps, to mark him, to make him feel less alone.

He put his hand over the bracelet – there was no way in hell he was bringing up Shannon Fielding, not around Jenny – he wasn't even sure if Jenny had known her.

"My friend made it," he grunted gently. "It's a good luck charm."

Natalie smiled, admiring it.

"It's pretty," she said.

Gibbs nodded, rubbing his wrist – Shannon was at the University of Virginia, now, studying elementary education; suddenly, and acutely, Jen standing there, reminding him of what they used to have, made him miss Shannon, wish she was here –

He wondered how Jen would feel about that, if he told her another woman was giving him tokens of affection, making him happy.

"Say goodbye, Natalie," Jenny coaxed.

Gibbs reached out his hands again, and again swept Natalie into his arms, turning and walking away some, ending the day like they'd begun it. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, meeting her eyes. He steeled himself for a moment, but he wanted to hear it from her –

"You happy, Natalie?" he asked. "Is Mommy taking good care of you?"

Natalie nodded earnestly. She smiled, for good measure.

"She's a good mommy," she assured him.

Gibbs smiled tiredly. He nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed, ruffling her hair affectionately. "She always was."

He took a deep breath and kissed her cheek, closing his eyes a moment.

"I love you, Natalie," he told her hoarsely. "You remember that." He squeezed his eyes tightly, and pushed her hair back. "I always think about you."

She nodded, putting her arms around his neck in a tight hug. He held her tightly, so tightly he had to remind himself not to hurt her. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, leaning back.

"You're a good girl," he said gruffly. He touched his nose to hers. "Love you," he said again.

She nodded.

"Love you, Daddy," she answered, kissing his nose. She grinned, and laughed, and he let her down, his arms as heavy as lead – he'd give anything to be taking her with him – and as he looked up, and watched her scampering towards her mother, he realized he wasn't sure if he felt the same about Jenny.

Most of the time these days he asked himself if he'd ever really known her; other times he just thought she'd hurt him so badly he couldn't feel the same way – he recognized the way she looked at him, though; other than a little more heartache, it was the same way his Jenny used to look at him in Stillwater.

That made him angry – how dare she; how dare she still look at him that way, when she'd taken everything from him – and he was angry that that look in her eye could somehow make him feel guilty for trying to – move on.

He rubbed his wrist, rubbed the pink bracelet, and he stood straight at ease, watching Jenny take Natalie's hand, gather their things, and head off – he watched, not taking his eyes off of them, waving when Natalie turned and gave a small one, his eyes on their retreat until he couldn't see them at all –

-and then he sat down in the sand again, his uniform wet and dusty, his hat cover perched a little unsteadily on his head.

He rubbed his jaw hard, breathing in the beachy air, and he watched the ocean lap at the hard sand, wondering what he was doing here – why he'd thought this was going to be such an easy fix.

He hated that it was like this; he hated that the was wary enough of it, and exhausted enough from the chaos of emotions trying to stay involved caused, that he was so tempted to just quit.

* * *

He was prepared for Scout Sniper training to hand his ass to him on a silver platter – he was ready for it, he wanted it, he was aching for the challenge and the sheer brutality of it, to have something to channel himself into – but when he graduated Pendleton's elite course with the highest number of theoretical kills, and felt like taking a break and patting himself on the back, he sure as hell wasn't prepared for the challenge of where they sent him next.

Weapons, physical exertion, strategy, tracking – all of those earthy, masculine, forceful disciplines were his element as both an individual and a Marine, but – language training? Weeks and weeks on end at the Presidio in Monterey in preparation for – what, talking the enemy to death?

The most absurd thought he had when he got the orders was – _they should send Jen to do this._

And then, quickly after that, a conflicting sort of relief and dread over moving to Monterey, which was four or so hours away from where Jenny and Natalie were in Los Angeles – not that he'd seen them since the end of nineteen eighty-nine, anyway.

That – that wasn't something he could necessarily blame entire on Jenny, either, things had just – Sniper training was more indoctrinating and time consuming than he'd expected, and half the time he was in no state of mind to go play with a little girl – he was too jumpy, too focused on operations and mission security – fake mission security, for whatever game was running that day, but all the same.

He had tried once, and though he'd sensed her reluctance, Jenny had agreed – well, Melanie had agreed, since Jenny had been at work, but he'd had to back out at the last minute – which he supposed was for the best, because he was never sure if Melanie actually told Jenny that she'd told Gibbs he could come by and visit.

His pipe dreams of spending all free weekends and days off with Natalie had crumbled, due to lack of free time and his own – reluctance to fight with Jenny, to face off with her – he was afraid of Natalie getting upset over seeing them always fighting, he was afraid of making her confused, even if that was all Jenny's fault in the first place –

So he languished somewhere in vague parental purgatory, while the Marines plucked him from a stellar Scout Sniper school career and chucked him right into the middle of Arabic classes that were way above his head.

"Because," snapped a commanding officer, when he dared ask what the hell he was going to language training for, "You'll be in there with the Kuwaiti military."

Gibbs wasn't stupid enough to ask what that meant, but considering the news lately – it was hard to miss, the aggression in the gulf, and the increasingly threatening rhetoric of George H. W. Bush – Gibbs figured it meant the Marines were being prepped for support, if Iraq went any further than a perilously drawn line.

That always reminded him of Jenny yelling at him for not knowing, politically, where he might get killed, back when he was younger and he'd first joined the military.

He forgot, sometimes, that he was still young.

He was in the back of the classroom, his feet propped up, waiting for class to start, when another Marine with her cap under her arm came by and slammed her hand into his feet, knocking one off the table successfully.

"Hiya," she greeted, giving him a smug grin. "I heard a rumor you were around."

He dropped his feet to the floor and stood up.

"Matteson?" he asked, his eyes widening.

She grinned at him, her brows going up.

"In the flesh," she laughed. She stepped forward, and gave him a quick, one-armed hug – better not let anyone see them and think they were _fraternizing_.

He grinned and took a step back, tilting his head.

"You still here? Thought they'd have PCS'd you by now," he said gruffly – her assignment had been language training right after boot camp, he wondered why she was still here three years later.

"They did! I did my language training, deployed to Saudi Arabia, and got cycled back for more advanced training – that's how good I am, Gibbs," she said, preening smugly. "I'll be a translator, when they send us up to Kuwait."

"That a thing?" Gibbs asked.

"Oh, no one will say it is," Joan Matteson said blithely. "But if you think a Republican president isn't going to send us careening in there to protect our oil – I mean, Kuwaiti's human rights," she said, her eyes sparkling. She laughed, and sat down on the edge of his desk. "I've got a minute before I head to my class – one building over," she said.

Gibbs sat down, leaning forward on his knees.

"How ya been, Gibbs?" she asked.

He smiled at her, shrugged a little. He never really knew how to answer that question – he could say 'can't complain' because he wasn't really a whiner, so that was true, but he did have things to potentially bitch about – and he wasn't necessarily 'great,' but he supposed lately – aside from the flare ups of darkness – he was –

"Good," he said carefully. He rubbed his wrist. "'M good – coulda done without gettin' ordered up here," he groused. "Made it to Sniper school," he said.

"I heard, my Gunny was bragging about you – but I hear you're a slob at Arabic."

Gibbs shrugged, and smirked.

"Don't got to speak the language to make a good shot."

"Have you heard of a little thing called _diplomacy_ , Gibbs?"

"Matteson, you joined the Corps, what the hell do you care about _diplomacy_?"

She snorted, and he rested his elbows on his knees – boy, he was glad to see her; a familiar face was always good, especially when it came to people you might end up fighting next to. She tucked some short hair behind her ears, and clasped her hands.

"So, what happened with you and that girl? How old is that Natalie now, what – like, uh, four?"

"Five," he said automatically. "She'll be six this November – startin' Kindergarten," he said – he knew all the facts, in an abstract way – he just didn't know _them_ , her, personally.

"Mm-hmm," Matteson said critically. She nodded at his hands. "No ring."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders, and tried to look cool about it.

"You were right," he said grudgingly – hadn't Matteson been the one who warned him not to beat himself up if 'things like this' didn't work out?

She gave him a look.

"I didn't _want_ to be," she informed him. "How long's it been?"

Gibbs snorted.

"Never got married," he confessed. "Three years."

He watched Matteson do the math, and she frowned a little, giving him a sympathetic little tilt of the head. She chewed her lip a moment, and then leaned forward.

"That's a long time," she said. Her eyes narrowed sharply as he rubbed his wrist again – the more frayed the red and pink braided bracelet got, the more it itched him – but still, he wouldn't take it off. "Your daughter make you that?"

Gibbs looked at it, running his fingers under it thoughtfully. He shook his head.

"Nah."

"Ah," Matteson said. She folded her arms. "So you got a new girl."

Gibbs looked up at her, and swore he saw a flash of disappointment – but just as quickly, it was gone, and she looked almost wry. She arched a brow at him.

"I'm just one of the guys, remember?" she goaded. "Spill the dirty details."

He shrugged, smirking a little, and shook his head, a tinge of colour hitting his cheeks – and she sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Who am I kidding? You were never like those other dicks, anyway," she said lightly.

Gibbs appreciated that. He leaned back, considering Matteson for a moment – Shannon had given him the bracelet, yes; Shannon was no longer just a friend he called, or a girl who sent whimsical post cards – Shannon had spent the summer before she started the University of Virginia, in nineteen eighty-nine, hanging around Lejeune in North Carolina, and when he'd helped her move into her one bedroom apartment just off campus, he'd stayed the night in an anything but platonic way.

It was – very slow, though, very cautious. He knew he felt something for Shannon, but he didn't want to confuse it with any residual feelings for Jen, and end up hurting a girl who'd only ever been a good friend to him.

"Is she a California girl?" Matteson asked.

Gibbs shook his head.

"Nah, college girl," he said.

Matteson whistled.

"Fancy, them ones," she drawled. "What's she studying – bet she's at Berkeley, or somethin', you seem to attract those sophisticated women like flies," she snorted."

"She wants to be a teacher," Gibb said. "She's – she's at University of Virginia," he corrected. "Met 'er – she's from home."

"I guess you can take the boy out of the boonies, but you can't take the boonies out of the boy," Matteson sighed dramatically. She wiggled her hand around. "This whole long-distance thing workin' for you, this time?" she prodded.

Gibbs thought about it a moment, and he actually smiled a little – he talked to Shannon all the time, he wasn't worried about her well-being, or jealous about what she might be doing, and he didn't think she felt that way about him.

He nodded a little – she was a very bright spot in his life, and he was starting – cautiously – to hope that maybe it could last, even though often it scared him, or made him feel like he had to choose between having her, or eschewing everything to try to do whatever he could to be right for Natalie.

Matteson rubbed her knee.

"Do you see your daughter?" she asked.

He gave her a sharp look, shook his head a little. Matteson bit her lip, and didn't ask anything else. She sat back, and then realized other service members were filing into the room, and she probably needed to beat it. She took her cap in one hand and slapped him in the shoulder with it wryly, giving him a sly look.

"Give me a shout if you need help on your Arabic, Gibbs," she mocked, narrowing her eyes primly.

"Call me if you need your diplomatic ass covered in Kuwait," he retorted coolly, swinging his feet back up on the desk.

She thumbed her nose at him and hopped out of the room, vacating space for a Petty Officer to take her empty seat, open a book, and start pre-studying for the upcoming class quiz – a quiz Gibbs was none too concerned about since, again, he felt his skills were better utilized not sitting in a damn school room all day.

He leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously, and looked out the window at the Presidio campus – tonight, he'd go back to his room, maybe sit down at some half-finished letters for Natalie, maybe beat himself up for twenty minutes before he got a call from Shannon – she always called on Thursdays, after her evening Chemistry class.

He had less to do in Monterey, and thus, more time to think – to think about how guilty he felt for not seeing Natalie again after that one day in November, how pathetic it was that he'd only called on Christmas and – Valentine's Day and – Easter – since – he was just so busy, then, and so blissfully relaxed, being too tired to think about them and the conflict of emotions they brought on –

-and here it all threatened to consume him again, and he badly wanted not only a distraction, but a true break from it all – Shannon had been that, during that unexpected summer fling at Lejeune, and the subtle promise it seemed to have – but now she was so far away, and she had a well-meaning way of quietly trying to nudge him to force Jenny's hand in the whole thing.

He just…couldn't bring himself to do it.

He had thought talking to her was hard, but seeing her was even harder, knowing he was never going to be all he'd planned to be in her life, not now, not in their situation – so he hid from it, sometimes; he blamed Jenny more than he should, because he knew deep down if he pushed with a true unrelenting stubbornness she would make good on her half-hearted words.

He was pretty sure he was going to specialized combat training after he finished his language course, and that was back to Pendleton, so he kept telling himself – he'd figure it out there – that's what he would do; he'd figure it out there.

* * *

His quarters at Camp Pendleton were a godforsaken mess – he was trying to get everything squared away and put in storage - Shannon said she'd take care of it if he just got it all sent to her, she'd make sure all of it was squared away.

He was on the phone with her now, trying to explain things.

"They changed my orders – "

"Okay, okay, I understand that," Shannon said calmly. "I can try to change my flight – "

"No, Shannon, it's not gonna work like that," he snapped. "I got to fly out tomorrow – I've got to be Stuttgart by tomorrow evening, and there we're doing expedited training exercises – they told me this morning – "

"Jethro, Jethro," she said, talking over him. "It's okay – can you – _Jethro_ , it's not your fault, I'm not going to be mad at you," Shannon said, her voice heavy. She took a deep breath. "I know how quickly things can escalate. I know it's not your fault."

"You gonna be able to get a refund?" he asked.

She laughed huskily.

"You're about to deploy, and you're worried about my refund?"

"Plane tickets are expensive!"

"Well, maybe I can get them to transfer me to a flight to Germany, and I'll meet you there and say goodbye!"

It was wild suggestion, but it was just the type of thing Shannon would do – show up in Stuttgart, right as he was about to take a transport to Saudi Arabia, and flood into the tiny Kuwaiti principality in the name of truth, justice and – whatever America wanted this time.

They were supposed to spend Christmas together – Shannon was supposed to be flying out right after her last exam, but suddenly he'd been told he wasn't going to Germany in March, he was going now, immediately, because the President had authorized military action, and his unit was up – everything was about to be tested, his training, his language experience –

He sat down heavily on a crate, something he needed to have sent off to storage, and rubbed his head. He hadn't seen Shannon in so long – he'd been getting through the days, thinking about seeing her, and now – Christ, he didn't know if he'd ever see her again.

"Is there anything you need me to do for you – do I need to call Jackson?"

Gibbs didn't say anything. It hadn't even occurred to him to tell his father he was getting deployed – he shook his head, though Shannon couldn't see him; he figured his silence was enough.

He sighed, his shoulders aching. He looked to his left.

"Yeah, I – you got a pen?"

She scrambled around.

"I've got one," she said.

He sighed again, heavily.

"I need you – send a Christmas card to Natalie," he said grudgingly. "I…I missed her birthday, 'cause of combat – they threw us in a field for – well, you know," he muttered; he'd been radio silent with Shannon for four weeks, too. "This…package I sent her, it got lost in the mail, returned, so she needs a card, I can't get this to her before I leave."

Shannon was silent, waiting, and then he gave her the address – at least, he figured it was still the address – of Melanie Shepard's place. He looked down at the Christmas package that had been returned, shook his head, and held the phone closer.

"What do you want it to say?"

He closed his eyes tightly.

"Don't – worry about that," he muttered. "Just send _somethin'_ , her mother's already so high and mighty about establishing a stable pattern," he growled bitterly – that seemed to matter less and less, now that he was staring death in the face.

Shannon was quiet for a moment.

"You need to call them, Jethro," she said.

He grit his teeth hard – he knew she was going to say that, Shannon the Saint, always noble, always pushing him even when he was trying to avoid it. He shook his head, trying to resist – he just really didn't think he could have this conversation with them.

"I," Shannon started. She took a deep breath. "I – nothing better happen to you," she warned bravely, "but if I – if it was me, and I had a little girl with you, I'd need to know if something might happen, I'd need to be prepared – and she deserves that," Shannon said. "Even if you don't think she does, you need her to be able to talk to Natalie."

Gibbs just grit his teeth harder.

"I hate talkin' to her, Shannon," he said.

"I know you do," she said softly – they both knew he meant Jenny, not Natalie; talking to Natalie always soothed him, but made him sad in a hollow sort of way – he loved her, but sometimes that love felt so abstract now that he was scared of her, scared of how removed he'd let himself get from her life – and it was only getting worse.

He rubbed his jaw, the bracelet Shannon had made him sliding roughly against his cheek.

"She'd love it if I died over there," he said viciously. "I'd quit makin' _her_ life hard – "

" _Please_ don't talk like that, Jethro," Shannon said softly – somehow, she never had to raise her voice to talk over him, or to get his attention. "I can't speak for Jenny but…there are people in this world who would be devastated to lose you, and Natalie is one of them. Regardless of what Jenny says about you being confusing to her."

He swallowed hard, trying to let Shannon's words comfort him.

He held the phone close to his lips, his hand shaking.

"And you?" he asked hoarsely.

He heard her smile – he couldn't see it, no, but he could hear it, he knew what her quiet _smiles_ sounded like.

"Is that your way of asking me to wait for you, Marine?" she asked coyly, her voice husky.

He closed his eyes tightly again, swallowing hard.

"I don't think I have anything else," he confessed, words raw and hard to get out.

He listened to the comforting things she said after that – and strangely, he thought of his mother, and how worried she'd be about him – and he tried not to think about the future, he tried not to think about the specter of war or the fear that came with it – perhaps because at the moment, the really scary thing was that it wasn't necessarily death that was intimidating him – it was coming back.

* * *

Two days – he had two days until the cool winter of Germany was gone, and the unforgiving sun of the Kuwaiti desert would be bearing down on his back as he sat perched in some nest, ready to pick off anyone who threatened his fellow Marines.

He was housed in barracks with men and women he knew intimately, people he'd trust with his life – Matteson was here, even, but she wasn't here as anything close to a diplomat – they were all about to face the reality of their enlistment, and despite how exquisitely trained he was, and how tough, and how strong, the Corps had made him, Gibbs still feared the voice on the end of the line when the ringing finally stopped.

The phone clicked, and someone answered – in Russian.

Gibbs didn't know if he was relieved or devastated – but he was confused. His brow furrowed – and he unlocked his jaw, clearing the thickness from his throat.

"Think I got the wrong number," he said gruffly.

"No! It's – it's me, Jethro, it's Jenny."

He swallowed, his shoulders sagging – he felt a rush of irritation at her, but he tried to quell it; she had no way of knowing how stressed he was, what a charged atmosphere they were in. He cleared his throat again, steadying his voice.

"You, ah, thinkin' about moving across the world, instead of just the country?" he probed sardonically.

"No. No I'm – it's just something I'm doing," she answered feebly, struggling for words. He tilted his head, annoyed to find himself mildly curious, and then he heard her mutter: "Speak of the devil."

"You talkin' to me, Jen?" he asked sharply.

He heard her swallow.

"It's just…the girls, they named a gecko after you. Gecko Jethro."

She sounded funny, distracted. He felt something hollow in his stomach – girls, plural? He wondered wildly if Jenny had – if she'd had another baby or something, with someone else – and then he was touched, that Natalie knew him enough to name a pet after him –

"Girls?" he asked, stressing the plural.

"Natalie has a friend over."

His stomach untightened a little. That – made more sense. After all of Jenny's uncertainty and her regrets and fears, if he'd come to find out she'd found someone else and had another baby with _him_ , he'd have lost it – it would have been too much to bear.

"Why did they name it after me?" he asked – he was trying to stall, buy time; there was something so innocent and lovely about little things like this, so much better than what he'd actually called to talk about.

"They're little girls. They just…do things like that."

He grunted, annoyed – she could give him more, she could tell him what Natalie was imagining, what she was doing – but she didn't, she was Jenny; close to the vest, and overly protective – as if Natalie needed to be protected from him.

"Wouldn't know," he said, targeted.

"Did you call to take potshots at me?" she demanded, immediately provoked.

He backed off, too exhausted to rise to the fight.

"I mean to call on her birthday," he said after a moment. His voice was apologetic – he felt so bad, but he hadn't wanted to upset Jenny or things or – whatever – by calling two weeks after, and then things had really gotten hairy.

"She had a good one anyway," Jenny said forgivingly. "I took her roller blading."

"Tried to put somethin' in the mail for Christmas," he went on, ignoring her comment – he didn't like the way it sounded, like Natalie didn't give a damn if he cared about her or not. "It got sent back to me."

That was what was so damn annoying, it had got sent back again – this time because he'd screwed up the paperwork when trying to send her chocolates and stuff from Germany – he'd abandoned the other present to have Shannon send, in case he couldn't pull this off.

He'd called her and told her to go ahead and send it two days ago.

"You sent a card," Jenny was saying. "It wasn't your handwriting," she added, fishing. "Who sent the card?"

The question offended him; he felt like she was prying, and he bristled, gritting his teeth – he ignored that question, too.

"Look, I'll find a way to get the Christmas gift to her," he promised. "Got to – figure out the post system," he growled vaguely.

"Jethro, where _are_ you?" she asked.

He covered his mouth tensely, nearing the point of the conversation he didn't want to have. When he didn't answer, she must have felt nervous –

"Are you still at Pendleton?" she guessed.

He took a deep breath.

"PCS'd to Monterey right after I qualified," he told her dully. "Language and intelligence training. Haven't gotten a break."

"What language?" she asked quickly, too interested for his taste – sure; now she'd express interest in his career, now that it might be interesting to her.

"Arabic," he said curtly.

He heard her catch her breath.

"And you're still at Monterey…?" she began.

"Germany," he cut her off harshly, knocking his teeth together. He swallowed hard. "Jen," he started, his next words coming out in a harsh rush: "I'm deploying to Kuwait."

It felt like hours, before she answered.

"Germany?" she asked, her voice high pitched – she sounded panicky, and scared and that – that actually made him feel better; it eased his apprehension and his stress a little to know that she still cared. "But why – well, they always deploy out of Germany—when did you go to Germany? Is that why you haven't called? Kuwait, Jethro –"

"It happened fast."

He cut her off again, before she dared get emotional. He bit his lip, and straightened up where he was seated, stretching his shoulders.

"I don't know how to tell Natalie," he confessed warily. "Thought you'd have a better idea of where to start – "

" _You aren't telling Natalie a damn thing!"_

He fell silent. It wasn't altogether unsurprising, but he was so quietly angry suddenly that he couldn't speak. He took a long time to get himself under control enough not to start swearing and shouting at her; he took a long time to remind himself he wasn't his own father.

"Why the hell not, Jenny?" he asked dangerously.

"Why do you _think_?" she hissed. "You can't just call up my daughter and tell her you're off to a warzone – she doesn't even know what deployment means –

"I want my daughter to know I'm thinkin' about her before I – "

"You can't do that, Jethro, you can't!" cried Jenny. "You're so – I'm sorry, I don't want to – I know this is harsh, but you're so abstract to her, you're so – out of sight, out of mind and I can't have to suddenly explain to her what deployment is, and the risks, and have her worry about something she can't comprehend – she can't even process feelings about you, really – "

"That isn't my fault," he snarled, goaded—he wasn't listening to her actual reasoning, because all he was hearing was that she wasn't going to let him talk to Natalie before – before – "You're the one whose made it impossible – "

"You were in California for a year – as far as I know – and you made no effort," she accused, "you barely even _call_ – "

He felt his cheeks flush, at having that thrown at him - because she was right, he'd only been calling on holidays, and even less than that, since all this training had broken out – and he hadn't – he hadn't seen her – but –

"You made it clear you didn't want me confusing her and you damn well know it, Jenny!" he roared.

She was the one who had planted the seeds of doubt in his head, made him feel out of place, like he was doing more harm than good –

"Jethro. Jethro, I don't want to have this conversation with her. It would be different if we were together, if we were married - "

"You made damn sure that didn't happen, Jen," he broke in icily. "You don't think she should know?" He went from not having wanted to call them, to absolutely outraged that Jenny would think of keeping this from their daughter. "That's your problem – then it's your problem, too, when you've got to tell her I'm dead," he snapped viciously – a dreadful thought occurred to him: "Or would you keep that from 'er, too?"

"Gibbs," she gasped. "Don't – _don't_ go into this thinking you won't come back," she pleaded. "My father always – he always said the most important thing was the drive to come back."

She threw him off, because of how hurt she sounded, how sincerely terrified she sounded, and in a strange twist of emotion, he suddenly missed her so badly it hurt – he missed how things used to be, and he started to wonder if the worst of all the pain was him still loving her even though all the anger, betrayal, and hurt – and love was hard enough when it was a good, strong love.

He swallowed hard, darkness creeping into his mind – he didn't know what he had with Shannon, he'd lost what he had with Jenny, he never saw his little girl – he grit his teeth.

"What do I have to come back to?" he asked hoarsely.

"You have a daughter!" Jenny snapped fiercely.

Unbidden, a dull smirk rose to his lips – so, he had to really admit that he didn't give a damn if he lived or died, and she finally decided to admit Natalie was his, and his right.

"You have a daughter, and you love her," she went on passionately. "And I don't want that little girl laying awake at night, scared and worried that you're gong to die, when she barely knows you. I _know_ that's my fault. I know that. But she's not going to suffer for my mistakes. She cries for dead spiders, Jethro. She cries for dead spiders. I'm not going to put this burden on her. She's _six_."

It was quite the speech – and it humbled him; chastised him.

"If you ever tell me you have nothing to come back to again, I will find out where you are and I will make you remember. I don't give a damn if you hate me, Jethro. But your life is worth more than what I did to you. Your life means more to other people."

Strangely, it was almost the same thing Shannon had said – strangely, it was exactly what he needed to hear from _Jenny_ ; that she felt Natalie did need him, and she felt Natalie would suffer if he was gone.

He felt some relief, at that – he closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. He – he might even interpret that as Jenny leaving the door open, almost demanding he fight her harder – because really, when she accused him of dropping the ball – well, he had…he had, in some respects.

"I want to talk to her," he said heavily – that was why he'd really called; he just wanted to hear Natalie's voice.

"You won't tell her, Jethro," she said warily. "You – "

"Jesus Christ, Jen, let me talk to her!" he growled. He grit his teeth. "I want to hear her voice," he said honestly. "Jenny, I just want to hear her, before I go."

"Natalie Winter!" he heard her call immediately. "Natalie, there's a gecko on the phone for you!"

Gibbs chewed on the inside of his lip, listening to muffled voices, and the sounds of Jenny shifting. It wasn't long before he heard a quick, sharp little breath, and then –

"Hello, Daddy!"

Gibbs smiled to himself. He took a deep breath.

"Hey, Bug," he greeted gruffly. "What're you doin' namin' lizards after me?"

Natalie burst into giggles.

"Maybe he looks like you, are you green and slimy and slithery?" she teased smugly.

"'M not slimy and slithery, but I got a lot of green on," he said solemnly – though it was only half true; he had his desert uniform to take to Kuwait, not the more familiar green fatigues. "Did Mommy get you a pet gecko?"

"No, my friend Emma and I found him in the yard," Natalie said. "Emma is babysitting him so I can talk to you – Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year," she said sweetly. "I think I slept through you calling."

"I didn't call," Gibbs confessed. "I was – I was busy, Princess," he told her. "I'm – I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said genuinely. "I kissed your dog tags and said a prayer."

Gibbs smiled tightly to himself, bowing his head.

"I've, uh, I've got a big, scary job to do in the next few months, okay?" he told her. "It's gonna be real hard," he said vaguely. "I figured you could make it a little easier on me."

"How?" she asked eagerly. "I can chew on the dog tags more. Mommy _hates_ it, but I keep 'em close," she bragged. "I can send you a present, maybe, if I know your address – "

"I don't need presents from you, honey," he interrupted gently. "I just want you to tell me you're really, _really_ happy," he said. "Only if it's the truth."

She breathed out, relieved.

"I am happy, Daddy," she said brightly. "I like talking to you."

He smiled to himself.

"I love you, Nat," he told her, like he had at the beach – like he always did. "I think about you all the time."

She made a quiet noise.

"I know you love me," she said earnestly. "I love you – I'll stay very happy," she said. She giggled. "I'll draw you a picture of the gecko, I'll make Mommy send it."

Gibbs didn't tell her that Mommy had no idea how to reach him, and she never asked. He just smiled to himself again, gritting his teeth, thinking about how good it was to hear her voice, and how hard it was going to be to face Kuwait with so many doubts and regrets and – uncertainties, never knowing if he'd done enough, always thinking he hadn't _been_ enough.

There was banging on his barrack door, and two Marines barged in, ready to drink to go out – the last call, before their lives changed forever – before they really were thrust into what they were trained for.

"Gibbs, get your ass up – "

"Is that your honey on the phone? Boy, tell her you got whiskey to drink – "

Gibbs flipped them the bird, glaring daggers, and pulled the phone closer.

"I'll talk to you sometime soon, okay, Natalie?" he asked hoarsely. His voice shook a little. He faltered on what to say, and then something unexpected came out: "Take care of your mom."

"Bye, Daddy," she said. "Bye – kiss, I love you."

He mouthed the words, and then hung the phone up, putting his wrist against his brow. He took a moment, and then looked at the guys, mustering all his composure.

"Give me a damn minute, Christ," he swore.

They laughed, and they were out – and he was picking up the phone again, aching to call Shannon, to hear her voice, to tell her he needed to hear her say she wanted to come home – she must have been in class, though, all the way in the U.S. – or asleep, more likely – because she didn't answer, and he hung up, dragging himself up to go participate in the first-combat revelries – at least thankful that if he didn't come back, his daughter's last words had been that she loved him.

* * *

War was simultaneously exactly what he'd expected it to be, and infinitely worse. The combat environment was brutal, chaotic, and complex; nothing like training, and yet he felt prepared to do his job – and he suddenly respected the hell out of the instructors who had slave-driven them in infantry school in boot camp, screaming their heads off and bullying the Marines, trying to get the point across.

This – Kuwait, Desert Storm – this got the point across.

There was no solitary, secluded nest for a Sniper; he was constantly changing position, finding the best vantage point to assist in protecting his unit, trying to watch his back while he watched their backs – both on the lookout for targets, and for covert Iraqi operatives targeting him – and no matter how offensive Matteson was always telling them it was, he couldn't tell the Kuwaitis from the Iraqis, the ally from the enemy.

His saving grace, he grudgingly had to admit, was his half-assed understanding of Arabic, because the phrase he knew by heart was _– don't shoot; Kuwaiti!_

They days went on, and the conflict only got more brutal – until he didn't know which way was up anymore, or when he'd last slept – really slept; every day just seemed to be more sand in his mouth, more sun in his eyes and burn on his neck, more death, more blood, more dread of what was to come.

There was always someone screaming in his ear; _there was someone screaming in his ear –_

Gibbs listened to part of his unit clearing a house, blocking out the battle around him – these enemy fighters were good, they were in their own terrain, they were better at this, despite American training, despite American weaponry and technology.

"Two Marines, entering room," he heard gruffly.

"Clear."

"Three Marines; corner – "

That was Matteson's voice.

"Sniper; report."

"Clear," Gibbs grunted quietly, his eye on his scope.

There was silence, except for the sound of exploration.

"Stop," shouted Matteson.

" _Shit_ – "

" _Sniper; SNAF – Sniper, support!"_

Gibbs tore his eye from his scope, rolling – he couldn't see what they were seeing.

"Cameron," he barked radio. "Cameron – east sniper, report – "

" _Cameron's dead, Gibbs – cover, cover, cover – "_

Gibbs rolled again, shaking off the brush he'd been laying under. Moving as quickly as possible, he darted around the cliff he'd perched on, seeking a better vantage point for the house they were on – the sounds of gunshots, fighting, burst through his radio, and he wondered what they were facing down there – he scanned the ground beneath him and slid down into a niche of the cliff, throwing himself on the ground and desperately finding his scope again.

In a mere ten seconds, he found two targets; picked them off without thinking about it – watched them fall – fuzzily, he could see Marines scrambling, and he wiped sweat from his eyes.

"Report," he shouted.

"Gibbs," gasped Matteson, her voice scratchy. "We need ordnance disposal -

Gibbs relayed the message; he got a negative response.

"Negative, Matteson, negative; retreat – the order is retreat."

"Bartlett is down," she said, her message garbled. "Repeat, Marine down – "

He didn't quite catch the next thing, and he saw an Army corpsman, – heading down the mountain, and dropping down next to him. The guy grabbed him, pushing him down.

"That shack's about to get lit up by Iraqi bastards," he growled. "Turncoat – Kuwait – someone gave away our position – move, move –"

"I got Marines in there!" Gibbs bellowed.

"We all got the order to move, son – move – "

Gibbs shook him off – he knew what orders were, but if he knew Matteson, she wasn't going to leave an injured Marine – no Marine was going to leave a brother to die – and he sure as hell wasn't going to lay up on a cliff an watch them all go up in smoke.

He thought he might have busted the corpsman's nose with his rifle as he slung it over his shoulder, dropping down the mountain carelessly – and he paid for his carelessness; he landed heavy on his ankle, and heard a crack – when he got up to run, adrenaline was the only thing that kept him running – he tried to outrun the searing pain of the break – and he tried to outrun the sand suddenly exploding behind him, bullets at his heels.

At the door of the dwelling, he ran into one Marine, holding his chest.

"Ambush," he gasped. "Started – east sniper, Cameron," he panted. "Six guys – Matt—Matt—Matteson got three – "

"She said there's ordnance?"

"Yeah, it's strapped to a goddamn kid, that's why Bartlett took a hit, tryin' to help – she's tryin' to help – "

Gibbs looked into the treacherous house. He looked back to the Marine.

"You think you can get Bartlett to camp?"

The Marine hesitated, looked at his bleeding chest. He drew himself up, and nodded.

"I'll help you," Gibbs said, locking his rifle on his back. He pulled out his sidearm, holding it in front of him.

"Forget clearing the house," the Marine rasped, leading him.

They made their way into a dark room, where Bartlett was hunched against a wall, bleeding profusely from the stomach and thigh – and Matteson sat on a bed with a young girl, maybe six years old, who sat in the corner crying, something heavy strapped to her.

Matteson was speaking rapid Arabic; Gibbs could barely keep up.

"Calm down, sweetie, I'll get it off of you; we'll keep you safe – "

"Americans kill my family!" she screamed. She pointed at the bodies littering the room. "Americans kill!"

"Matteson," barked Gibbs. "Who knows when that thing's gonna blow – "

"I'm not going to run and let a little girl get blown to bits, Gibbs!"

He thrust his firearm at Bartlett, at the other injured Marine –

"We got our own to worry about," he barked harshly.

"She doesn't pay for her parents' sins! She's a baby! She's – fuck, Gibbs,' she's your kid's age!"

"Jesus Christ, who the fuck let women join the Marines?" griped the Marine with the shoulder wound.

Gibbs turned away sharply from Matteson, and pointed to Bartlett.

"Get him – drag him; radio for cover – there's a Kuwaiti sniper somewhere who can get you," he barked formidably.

He helped get Bartlett up, helping the other Marine as they started to shove and drag him out – and then he pushed them off, and went back to Matteson, his eyes moving quickly.

He got on the bed, hardly even thinking twice, and he reached out, grabbing the little girl. She began to scream, fighting him, thrashing around.

"No Americans! No, No, NO!"

He ignored her, thinking only that he had to get Matteson's ass out of here, he had to get them both out – and he had to at least try to get the explosive off this child –

Matteson grabbed his elbow and moved forward.

"Don't you carry a knife, Gibbs?" she bellowed. "Always carry a knife!"

She cut off the girl's shirt, brushing the device away – it let out a shrill wail, and Matteson shoved the child into Gibbs' arms.

"Fuck – run," she rasped.

Gibbs didn't need to be told twice. In a moment of chivalry, he grabbed Matteson by her collar, shoved the kid into her arms, and shoved them both in front of him, following them out of the dwelling at a run – he tried not to look at the dead Marines he passed on the way; they'd have to be dealt with later, they'd –

He felt sun hit him, hot, and he and Matteson nearly collided with the other two, still barely trying to get away.

"Down, down, down, cover your head!"

Gibbs pushed the two injured to the ground and thrust his arm out to cover his neck; his rifle banged against his skull as he hit the sandy ground, coughing and rolling away quickly as the blast rocked the world around them.

Stunned as he was, his ears ringing, it took him mere seconds to get up on his knees, take stock of the situation – the others were still low, stirring – the little Iraqi girl squirmed up from beneath Matteson, sobbing, and started to run.

"HEY!" Gibbs bellowed.

He tried to reach his radio, he tried to think of Arabic – he knew the Kuwait sniper would be on the lookout for a bomb rigged –

"Don't shoot!" he bellowed, in terrible Arabic. "Explosive neutralized, do not – "

He turned his head away as the bullet found the girl's head, thrusting her backward with deadly force, where she collided with Matteson, and Matteson tried to reach her.

Matteson let out an awful screech, turning away, and Gibbs wiped his face, filing it away for later – later, all these horrible things for later – he couldn't think about how Matteson was right, how that kid was probably Natalie's age –

"Matteson," he barked, "help us with Bartlett."

They got to Bartlett – he was still stirring, still bleeding like a stuck pig – but the other Marine was dead, shredded by shrapnel – _Jesus_ , what the hell had been in that makeshift bomb?

Gibbs thrust Bartlett's arm over his shoulder.

"You're goin' home, Marine," he ordered aggressively.

"Matteson!" he shouted.

She pushed herself under Bartlett's arm, both of them keeping low; Gibbs heard her radioing their position, asking for cover, trying to detail casualties. Gibbs focused on getting them to the cliff, where he could find some of the corpsman, get some quick medical treatment while they waited for assistance –

He wasn't sure if he heard the blast first, or Matteson's blood-curdling scream – his vision lit up, and the next thing he knew, they were feet from where they'd been, and Bartlett was moaning – Matteson was shrieking – and they were further away from cover.

He crawled to her, trying to drag her up. She looked at him, covered in blood, coughing.

"Go, go," she rasped. He looked down, and looked away – she'd stepped on an IED; he was – he pulled her closer to his chest, trying to shield her, but there wasn't much to hold. "Cover Bartlett."

He put her arm around his shoulder –

"No, _Gibbs_!" she shouted, coughing up blood. "NO! Don't waste your time, I'm – it's no good – "

"Shut-up, Joan, no Matteson has ever died in a war," he growled huskily, remembering what she'd told him once.

"No male one," she joked feebly.

A volley of bullets erupted around them, and he slammed them both to the ground, waiting it out.

He heard Marines approaching, motor vehicles – _help_.

He got up, helped Matteson, her mangled leg, her bleeding abdomen, to Bartlett; he dragged Bartlett up –

"Come on, Marines," he bellowed, talking to himself.

"Shoulda left us, Gibbs," Bartlett rasped. "We're dead. You got to get home -

"We're all goin' home," he shouted over them.

He turned and stumbled, and the next thing he knew, he was being dragged up into the back of a truck – Army green, and beautiful to behold, and a corpsman was yanking Bartlett away, shouting – Gibbs collapsed, knelt next to Matteson.

"Can't believe you did that, Gunny," growled an Army sergeant. "That house was behind enemy lines, you're a sniper, you didn't have to risk – "

Gibbs ignored him.

"Joan," he said, his hands on Matteson's face. " _Joan_."

She was looking at him with scared, glassy eyes. She shook her head.

"I think my dad will be proud," she said, her voice cracking. She hunched up, gasping. "I didn't want to do this," she moaned. Her voice broke. "I wanted – I wanted – to guard – the embassies," she moaned.

"Get back, Gunny," someone was saying to him.

"This one's dead," someone else said, tapping Matteson's shoulder gently with his foot.

"Gunny, you got one hell of a bullet lodged in your hip," someone else said.

Gibbs felt like the world was fading.

He stared at Matteson; he held on to her shoulder – he watched the light leak from her eyes – he blinked hard, gasped – he saw Natalie standing where that little Iraqi girl had stood, he saw Jen, he saw Shannon – god, he wanted his mother, he missed his mother.

"Gunny," someone said, pulling him back. They were pushing him around, tearing off his clothing. "We're goin' back to base, Gunny, you're gonna be okay – "

The last thing he heard was the sharp, angry sound of bullets against the side of the convoy, and then the whole thing seemed to take flight in a burst of yellow light – and he was thrust into the air again, unsure if he'd ever come down, deaf to shouts and swearing, blind, his body aching, aching – until it slammed against the hot desert sand, and everything was black.

* * *

Gibbs woke up long before he opened his eyes.

It started with sounds. It progressed to fully formed sounds, then words. There was a lot of German, at first; things got clearer when he started to recognize English. He started to feel sore; then sharp pain, then agony - and then the pain persisted, though he adjusted; he moved his eyes, he could smell anesthetic, medicine, soap – but it was when he could smell faint vanilla and honey, and hear a soft whisper, feel a gently, but insistent touch against his fingers, that he decided – to open his eyes.

It was such a simple decision, and such an immensely difficult action – and the moment he did it, the world lit up in blasts of colour and deafening sound – hands grabbed him, things were ripped out of him –sparks of pain, rough dragging against his throat, and then he could taste water, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he could see.

White coats, determined faces, a flash of red, that scent of vanilla and honey – he recognized it, it was a woman's scent, wasn't it?

He felt the familiar touch in his hand again, grasping his fingers, squeezing hard.

When the flurry of motion and chaos of sound died down, someone was checking his eye movement, asking him to nod if he could, to speak if he could –

"Gunny, you're in a hospital. Gunny? Can you hear me?"

Gibbs blinked. He nodded.

The doctor grabbed his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

"You're okay, Gunny," he assured him, tucking a stethoscope around his neck.

Gibbs didn't feel okay. He blinked rapidly. A gust of pain slammed into his head like a sledgehammer, and he closed his eyes tightly, groaning softly.

"We'll get you some morphine, Gunny; we weaned you off of it, to see if the pain would pull you out," the doctor said gruffly. "Worked."

Despite the pain, Gibbs shook his head. He shook it again.

"No," he rasped. "She was talkin' to me," he corrected.

"I told you he could hear me."

Gibbs laid back, and opened his eyes, blinking – flash of red, scent of vanilla and honey, and the pain dulled; he swallowed, tightening his jaw. A name bubbled to his lips – no, but that was the wrong name –

"Shannon?" he asked.

She was there beside him, his hand clasped in hers, held against her gently fluttering heart. She nodded, tossing her hair back, saying something softly to the doctor.

"Take it easy with him, Miss Fielding," the doctor said warily – as if he was tired of her already.

Gibbs swallowed hard, tightening his fingers, squeezing back.

"Shannon," he said again.

She crept closer, and sat down next to him. She drew her legs up and curled close, bending down to touch her forehead to his, touching her nose to his, kissing his cheeks lightly.

"I told them you were in there," she whispered. "I saw your eyes moving. I hope – I hope the dreams weren't bad."

He turned his head away – he couldn't handle that. The dreams – not dreams; ghosts, nightmares – they were worse than bad. He remembered – bloody visions flashed before his eyes and he shook his head, wincing away from them.

He turned back to her. She touched his cheek.

He furrowed his brow. He felt so – muddled; he felt defeated.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Portsmouth Naval Trauma Center," Shannon answered softly. "They brought you here after Frankfurt cleared you for medical transport."

He looked at her helplessly, his brow furrowed.

"It's been three weeks," she said softly. "Nineteen days in Berlin – you really are okay; limbs in tact," she assured him carefully. She licked her lips. "Do you remember what happened?"

Visions again; white and black and burning all over. He closed his eyes, flinching – and he nodded; yes, he remembered, the girl, with the explosive – the sniper, dragging Bartlett and Matteson – Matteson – the IED that had catapulted the truck, and him, into the air –

"Joan," he said hoarsely, looking at Shannon.

She bit her lip, looking a little taken aback.

"Matteson," he said, trying to clear his throat.

Shannon shook her head very slowly. She ran her fingers over his wrist lightly, shaking her head again. She turned, and took something off the table at the bedside – a thick, official looking document.

"She didn't make it, Jethro," Shannon said quietly. "She – she was killed in action."

Gibbs swallowed, and closed his eyes – he had known that; he knew that now. He saw her face as she died; he remembered how scared she looked, how badly she didn't want to be there – how she'd tried so hard to save that kid.

"This – Bartlett, though? He lived. He said it was because you came for them, they were stranded," Shannon said softly. She showed him the letter tentatively. "They're – your – some Army medic told your commanding officer…they put you in for the Silver Star."

Gibbs lifted his arm feebly, and pushed the letter away, shaking his head. He didn't need that. He did his job – _all_ he did was his job; never leave a Marine behind. Matteson deserved that award, or trying to save that kid – Matteson had died for her country, all he'd done was his job.

Shannon put the letter aside, and turned, curling closer to him. She reached out and placed her hand on his chest, silently feeling his heart beat. She stayed quiet, her careful eyes on him.

He took a few deep breaths – his chest felt heavy, everything was still hurting so much – and his head still felt muddled, and fuzzy; he couldn't remember much of what he needed to, he felt like.

He opened his eyes, and looked at Shannon.

"Where's – Natalie?" he asked.

Shannon smiled gently.

"She's in California, I assume," she told him.

"She's not – why's she not here with you?"

Shannon hesitated, tilting her head slightly. She reached up and touched his jaw, pulling on his skin a little, looking at him critically. She brushed her fingertips back towards his hair, and pulled back, searching his expression.

"Natalie isn't mine," she told him cautiously. He sensed she was suddenly afraid of him, and he squinted, studying her – suddenly he knew that, and he wasn't sure why he'd asked – he – yeah, he knew Natalie wasn't _Shannon's_ daughter.

Shannon clicked her tongue.

"You might be a little fuzzy," she said calmly. "Natalie is _Jenny's_ daughter. _Jenny_ had her when you were sixteen."

Gibbs stared at her, nodding slowly – yes, he knew that, too; he was just having a difficult time understanding why – they weren't here, or why…he didn't understand what had – _happened_.

He looked at Shannon, and he knew she was important – he felt that, deeply, that she was important, and he could breathe a little easier knowing she was here – but he felt like there was some emotion missing, some weight gone – and he couldn't – fathom why he had ended up _not_ living with his daughter.

He didn't think he was the kind of person to run off like that, and he knew he – he knew he loved Natalie.

"Is she okay?" he asked slowly.

Shannon nodded slowly.

"I think so. You said she was happy the last time you spoke to her. I sent on the package you sent me, of presents – before you left Germany," she told him. She paused. "And I _did_ call your father, regardless of what you said, and he told me Natalie liked the chocolate."

Gibbs wasn't entirely sure he knew what she was talking about. He didn't remember telling her not to call his father, and he didn't remember sending Natalie any chocolates from Germany.

He grit his teeth, twisting his head a little, looking at Shannon without blinking.

He ran her fingers over his wrist again – somehow, he still had the bracelet she'd made him tied on him – through all that, fire, blood, and sacrifice, it had survived.

He couldn't fathom what he needed to ask about Natalie, so he asked about Shannon.

"How's school?"

"Good," she answered hoarsely. She smiled faintly. "I'm taking two summer classes. I might get to finish early," she said. Then, she bit her lip. "I don't know, maybe I'll drop them…spend the summer focused on you."

He shook his head as fiercely as possible.

"Don't do that, Shannon," he mumbled insistently. "S'just two classes. Think…think I'll be here," he said, wincing a little. He swallowed slowly. "'M I still – a Marine?" he asked warily.

She laughed, and then she nodded.

"You're going to make a full recovery," she said. "Your old drill sergeant is stationed at Norfolk – he's the one who brought the letter of recommendation, for the Star. He told me – to tell you – well, he took one look at you, and he said you'd be fine – 'tell that Marine to get his ass up; we got work to do.'"

Gibbs smirked a little, relaxing slightly – some injuries resulted in an honorable medical discharge, and if he'd been facing that – well, despite the pain, he loved his career with the Corps, and he didn't know what he'd do without it, especially if he'd been hurt in some irreparable way.

Shannon licked her lips.

"Jethro? When did you list me as next of kin?"

He gave her a somewhat sheepish look.

"Before I left," he grunted.

"I," she started. "I—I'm happy," she told him earnestly. "But I – I didn't know you…trusted me that much."

He shrugged, trying not to make too big a deal of it – just in case she thought it was too much, or too big of a step.

"How'd you know about that?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"Why do you think I'm here? I'm not family."

Gibbs squeezed her hand.

"Didn't want them to get Jackson," he said roughly. "Or – Jenny," he said slowly.

The named sounded more familiar now, but he still didn't quite remember what had happened. He clenched his jaw, looking at Shannon again, and she bent closer, pressing her lips lightly to his forehead, then his cheek.

"I was so scared," she confessed, her voice hitching. "I know we weren't very serious – before you left, not – we never talked about, commitment – "

"I wasn't seein' anyone else," he said quickly, firmly.

She shook her head.

"Me neither," she assured him softly. She bit her lip, pushing a hand gently through his hair, resting it on a bandage on the side of his skull.

"But we never said anything important," she murmured, pressing her lips to his temple again. Her lips felt smooth and gentle, against the rough burns that had taken his eyebrows to task. "I – I'm pretty sure I love you, Gibbs," she said huskily.

She looked at him shyly a moment, and laughed quietly.

"I'm not trying to overwhelm you," she soothed. "I'm not expecting you to say it back – I needed you to hear it," she murmured. She smoothed her fingers over his brow. "I promise – I only _meant_ to be a friend, on that bus."

She did overwhelm him. He didn't think he could say anything. He lifted his arms and put them around her as best as he could, what with IVs and monitors attached to him, and he hugged her, burying his face in her shoulder, and breathing her in.

He was so glad she was here; he was so glad he'd woken up to a familiar face, on home soil – even if there was a lot of heavy sadness in his chest, and he felt like the road ahead was going to be daunting – emotionally and physically. He turned his head, pulled back, and kissed her full on the lips; to think, he'd once thought for a second he'd be okay with never coming back from that desert hell, when he had her to come back to – when he had people who loved him, and people he – he needed to do better for.

He pulled back, stroking her jaw lightly.

"Shannon," he said hoarsely, his eyes on hers intently. "Did I screw up?"

She pursed her lips, her eyes full of sympathy, slight confusion.

"Screw up what?" she asked. "You've never disappointed me," she assured him.

He shook his head slightly, her name forming on his lips.

"Natalie," he choked. "Did I screw up with Natalie? I can't, I can't," he faltered, taking a steadying breath. "I can't figure – what happened?"

There was a flutter of fear in his stomach, worry in his mind – he couldn't recall if he'd done something, and that's why he and Jenny had broken up, that's why she was gone and he didn't get to see his daughter – when he tried to reach for the memory, he hit a fuzzy, hard wall.

Shannon hesitated. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"No," she said finally, truthfully. "You didn't do anything wrong. You were good to her – to them."

He just looked at her, waiting for more. She bore that look for a moment, and then she breathed out a little nervously, exasperated.

"I'm, I'm _sorry_ , Jethro I don't – I don't _know_ her side of the story, I don't really know what happened, or what – whatever goes on between you two, you only tell me what you can stand to talk about," she told him. She cut herself off, and took a deep breath. "I think…you're blocking this out," she asserted quietly. She stroked his hair again. "You have a lot to – deal with, right now," she whispered, "and I think – when this starts to come back to you, it's going to be harder – it was always hard, always kind of a mess," she confessed sympathetically. "It's not my place to fill in her blanks," she finished.

She felt that way, she did – Shannon had never known Jenny personally, and she _didn't_ know how the woman thought or rationalized, and she refused to paint Gibbs a picture that might be incorrect, or biased by her own sympathy with his side of the events. She didn't want to involve herself in their disputes other than to support him and to be as much of a level-headed third party as she could, if he needed her – and right now, silently, privately, she thought it might be a blessing that he'd forgotten all that anger and depression and chaotic stress brought on by the constant push-and-pull and uncertainty with his ex-girlfriend, because after all he'd suffered in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, she wasn't sure if she could handle post-traumatic stress on top of personal nightmares and personal family trauma.

But if she had to, for him, she wouldn't give up – too many people had given up on Jethro – his father, Jenny – important people, important influences, in his life; and Shannon Fielding was not going to be someone who gave up.

She hoped her explanation was enough for him, at least right now – what he needed to focus on now was recovery, and what the Marines were going to do with him next.

Gibbs ran his hand through her hair a few times and then pulled her closer again, hugging her tightly. She rested her head lightly on his shoulder, sure the doctor would come back soon and kick her out so he could do – medical, necessary things, but she was content for the moment – and he wanted her there, close to him; she was nice to see, after everything he'd seen.

He tried not to think about the things that were fuzzy, the things he wasn't remembering, because he felt like he'd been suffering, felt like something had been making him miserable, torturing him, and that feeling was gone now – he knew it would come back, as he got better, as his head settled down, but for now he liked the peace – the strange peace that was, ironically, brought on by shrapnel to the knee, bullets to the shoulder, and a hell of a knock to the head.

* * *

"I don't feel like loving you no more."  
The Killers; All the Pretty Faces

* * *

 _forgive me if the Kuwait scene seems totally unconvincing - that stuff isn't my strong point; r.i.p Matteson, but a death like that was much more meaningful than a said helicopter crash - and note, Gibbs had some memory problems, and he's got more than enough reason to struggle with some PTSD. now, if i remember correctly, next chapter takes up in 1993._

 _feedback is much appreciated !_

 _-alexandra_


	3. Read My Mind

_a/n: a routinely happy chapter and, as a parallel to chapter 3 of_ 'Shepard Girls' _\- the final break, from Gibbs' point of view, between him and Jen._

* * *

Honolulu, Hawaii; Camp Pendleton, California; Frankfurt, Germany; Baghdad, Iraq: 1992-1994

Read My Mind

* * *

The Hawaiian weather was perpetually beautiful – constant, all year round, and reliable, unless a hurricane struck. It was a perfect climate, a relaxing climate – and an extremely coveted duty station, as far as Marine bases went. It was, essentially, the quintessential place to be after a grueling, frustrating recovery from a near-fatal deployment, and it was only made better by the fact that when he'd gotten his orders, and – with no desire to leave her long distance if he didn't have to – popped the question to Shannon, he'd been able to tell her, when she agreed to marry him, that they were going to Hawaii.

She'd decided she wanted to have the wedding there, something small and quick and outstandingly intimate – her mother had apparently thrown a royal fit about it, but Shannon appeased her by going home to Stillwater to allow a Bridal Tea before flying to meet Gibbs at Kaneohe Base.

She finished her undergraduate degree at the University of Hawaii, and she married him two weeks after graduation, just the two of them on the Poipu Beach in Kauai.

Now, settled in for a precious few carefree nights at the resort, Shannon came in from the balcony, where she had the doors thrown wide open, and crawled back in to bed with him, her hand running possessively over his chest.

"You know," she murmured contently. "I only married you because you got orders to Hawaii."

"Ha," he snorted gruffly giving her a look. "Hm, that's why I told you my orders after I asked," he growled, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips. He kissed the modest engagement ring he'd given her, and slipped his arm around her. "'M sorry we don't get more of a honeymoon," he mumbled, turning his lips towards her shoulder.

She laughed.

"Jethro," she sighed. "We're in Hawaii – when we leave this resort, we're still in Hawaii, living here – I got _married_ in _Hawaii_ ," she murmured. "Who needs a longer honeymoon?"

He smiled, kissing her throat lightly. She rolled away from him comfortably and stretched out on her side, gathering the light sheets about her – the late afternoon breeze was enchanting, and she wasn't sure she actually cared to get up and get dressed for their dinner reservation later.

She slid her foot over towards him, and nudged his ankle with hers, catching her tongue between her teeth – it made him breathe easier, to see her so happy.

He'd been worried it was too stressful for her – dealing with transferring schools, talking her angry mother off of a cliff, moving to a Pacific Island – and all alone, on her own dime, because he didn't get paid for her until they had a legal document – he'd said he was fine with her finishing at the University of Virginia, joining him later, but she said she was tired of living apart from him.

It hadn't even been that bad, after he was officially released from Portsmouth. They'd put him on medical R&R at Norfolk, and then when he'd been cleared for more duty, they put him at Quantico for a while, berating new recruits into shape, and performing as a liaison with the NCIS field office. Neither of those places were too far from her university – if there was no traffic – but she'd just said she didn't want to wait until she graduated.

So – she'd gotten herself into dorms in Honolulu, and kept close until he got the legal document from a court, got them into base housing, and then married her in a less official ceremony a month later.

It wasn't just – moving, and preparing to start their lives, either; he knew he'd been difficult for the past year or so – the effects of such a brutal combat had hit him full-force halfway through his physical recovery, sometime around when they'd made him stand up at a Purple Heart ceremony, and then a Silver Star ceremony, and he stood there staring into unfamiliar faces, thinking of the people who had died, who weren't there, whose ultimate sacrifice was getting a silly ribbon pinned to his dress blues.

Feeling the weight of that had crushed the fuzzy walls in his mind that were holding at bay the whole mess of Jenny and Natalie, and as it all started to become clearer – he was better now, he was in control, he was healing – but after focusing for so long on getting better, on getting healthy, and wondering, he couldn't go back to the way it had been.

If anything, rather than anger, these days he just felt guilt, when he thought of it, because he didn't call, he didn't send things he – he couldn't bring himself to pick back up. She didn't seem to care what had happened to him in Kuwait, and he was – so different, from who he was before his deployment, before his coma, that he didn't know what to say.

Shannon's hand slipped into his, then crept across the bed to his abdomen.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked curiously.

He turned his head on the pillow.

"What 'm always thinkin' about, when it gets too quiet," he said hoarsely.

There was no point in hiding anything with Shannon – that was one of the beautiful things about her; she knew Stillwater, she knew his past – there was no difficult conversation to have, ever.

She turned onto her stomach and moved close, lifting herself up on her arms lazily. She nodded, her long, thick hair tumbling messily over her shoulders.

"We're settled now; we're stable," she began slowly. She looked at him. "We could – we can reach out." He raised his brows a little. " _You_ can reach out," she corrected lightly. "I know you don't want me stirring the pot."

"It's not you," he retorted warily. "It's her. She thinks _I'm_ too confusing," he quoted, his eyes moving derisively, "her damn father – she'd get a restraining order on you," he said, hollow.

"She can't begrudge you moving on," Shannon said logically. "Who's to say she hasn't?"

Gibbs snorted a little. He doubted it – again, if Jenny reacted negatively to Gibbs being a confusing or uncertain presents in his own daughter's life, he highly doubted she allowed any non-blood related male that close. That, he had to admit, he took a petty pleasure in – he half-hoped her punishment for throwing what they had away was loneliness.

Shannon sighed. She slung her arm over his chest, and rested her chin there, blinking up at him through thick, dark lashes.

"You know I'm fine with whatever you want to do," she reminded him soothingly. She hesitated briefly. "You know I think you could – push her harder."

Gibbs shook his head a little.

She paused another moment, and went on.

"It wouldn't be uncalled for to take her to court – "

"Shannon," he growled, a little sharply.

"Jethro, it's not spiting her, it's not _vengeful_ ," she insisted, because that's always what he seemed to think – he was – well, they were both – raised in a world where suing and courts weren't really the answer, talking it out and homegrown bartering was how you resolved issues. "I know how much this bothers you."

He shook his head again, stubborn.

"Might hurt Natalie," he said.

"I think that child probably occasionally wonders why her mother is so shady about you," Shannon said, slightly nettled.

"'M not – I'm not gonna show up and have her first experience with seein' me again be takin' Jen to court," he growled warningly. "She'd probably hate me for it, if it upset Jen – you know how pissed I used to get if anyone looked funny at my Ma?"

Shannon nodded, understanding. She massaged her hand over his abdomen affectionately.

"Hell, if she even remembers me," he muttered, dejected.

"I'm sure she does," Shannon answered automatically. "How old was she, the last time you saw her?"

"Four," he said. "Or – five," he added, wincing. He didn't quite remember. He did know that – she was seven now; she'd be eight in November. Sometimes, it floored him, it absolutely floored him, that he had a seven-year-old child out there in the world – _seven_ , when he was only twenty-four, and Shannon was twenty-two, and it was all so backwards and confused.

He closed his eyes lightly, running his arm up and down Shannon's back.

He wondered what Natalie was doing, right at this moment – he didn't care what Jenny was doing.

"You could send her a letter," Shannon said quietly. "The way you used to – include your phone number, again – leave it up to her."

Gibbs shrugged – again, she was seven; she probably didn't think about complex things like this, and he didn't want to disrupt her carefree childhood and make her – and he sincerely doubted Jenny would be on board. Although – he knew, without question, that he'd fight Jenny on it if Natalie made it clear she wanted him in her life. But part of him now – sometimes wanted to stay uninvolved, so the whole thing would blow up in Jen's face and she'd have to face it, like she deserved to.

"There couldn't be a Natalie in my life without Jen," he said, a little unpleasantly. "She'd – " he faltered. "I dunno, Shannon, she threw me off, doin' what she did – I don't think she'd treat you right."

"Well, I wouldn't expect any mother to let her child around a stepmother without vigilance and investigation," Shannon said calmly. "And frankly – you're right, we couldn't have Natalie without Jenny, but in a larger sense, Natalie's existence in general is thanks to Jenny," she licked her lips. "And you," she added softly.

"We?" he said to her, skeptical.

She nodded simply, and shrugged.

"I know your past Gibbs, I know your baggage," she murmured. "I married you knowing that, knowing you have a child. If you can, I want you to have a relationship with that child," she explained. "I…would gladly love Natalie with you, and make her comfortable here. I don't feel threatened by her at all," she paused. "I definitely don't feel threatened by any other woman," she added, her voice firm and dry.

He turned towards her, sliding his other arm around her.

"Good," he growled, pressing his lips to her throat. "You shouldn't," he murmured possessively.

Her hand rested against his neck.

"I do think you're making excuses," she said. "I know…it's been hard – but I'm bringing it up now – "

"Shannon," he groaned.

"Jethro, I've been here, I've watched you struggle, I know how much you love Natalie – and I think, you – you're in a good place now, and you can stabilize everything, you can jump through some hoops if you – "

"I don't want to keep fightin' her, _Jesus_ ," he swore tensely.

It killed him every time – he remembered that now, clearly; he felt it heavily, how much it hurt to be around Natalie, or to talk to her, knowing how limited his options were, and how hard it was for him to keep it as constant as possible – and even when his full memory of the whole fiasco had come back, he'd known he was somewhat at peace with just being totally out of contact – because the longer he went that way, the duller the pain got.

"I just don't want you to regret this, Jethro," Shannon whispered.

He took her hand, squeezing hard.

"Shannon," he said hoarsely. "I don't want to talk about this," he said, his voice raw.

This was his wedding night – _her_ wedding night – and here they were, laying in bed, in various states of bliss and disarray, talking about his ex-girlfriend, and her tyrannical rule over the well-being of their illegitimate child – tyrannical, because he thought she took it too far, though he'd never demonize Jenny for protecting Natalie, because to date, every time he'd seen or spoken to Natalie, she'd seemed extremely well-taken care of, happy, and content.

"I love you," she murmured.

She rose up a little, shifting her weight onto his chest some, her hair falling onto his shoulders. She looked at him, and he ran his hands over her back – the room still felt breezy, sunny, and he let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding – she cleared his head.

She really had been there for song long, through everything; he felt no shame around Shannon, only his own guilt – and she tried to assuage that, she tried to help him work through it – sometimes, looking at Shannon, loving Shannon, he had the creeping realization that he hadn't been mature enough for this kind of love and commitment when he was nineteen.

He didn't want to think Jenny had been right, but things had been so impossibly difficult, when he'd been struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder and his recovery – he'd pushed Shannon, she'd pushed back, and they'd been trying to figure themselves out – he hated that he might have a small amount of understanding for Jenny's fear of what would have happened to them, if they'd gotten married.

She kissed his lips, and sprawled onto her back.

"Hawaii," she murmured. "Do we – we really get to live here, for a year?" she asked, half in a daze – it felt too good to be true; Hawaii, with the man of her _dreams_ – and she was sure she was going to get a Kindergarten teaching job at a local private school, she was so sure she would get it, and Gibbs was so much better – his knee hardly bothered him anymore.

He nodded. He turned his head.

"'M gonna put in for a promotion, next round," he said.

She turned her head, one eyebrow up lazily.

"Early, isn't it?"

He nodded slowly.

"Think I can swing it – 'm aimin' to get into the Marine Security Guard school," he told her.

Shannon rested her hand lazily on her stomach, her brow furrowing slightly.

"A – new MOS?" she asked, lips pursing gently. "I thought you loved being a sniper. It's what you wanted."

He thought of Matteson, dying in his arms – he thought of how brutal the whole deployment had been; he didn't want another combat deployment – yes, he felt ashamed of it, sometimes, he felt like a coward, but he didn't want to watch his Marines die again, he didn't want to be rewarded for being a killer – in theory, his job was cool, slick; in practice, it was cold, hollowing – but of course, he would do what he was ordered to for his country – ah, but he thought of Matteson, and boot camp, and everything she'd never get to do.

He shrugged.

"MSGs guard the embassies," he said. "I can't qualify for MSG school with a dependent, unless I'm a gunnery sergeant," he went on gruffly. "I'd need the promotion. It'd be at Quantico."

Shannon nodded, her fingers still dancing on her stomach, and her ribs.

"You know how I love Virginia," she sighed. She grinned beautifully. "Babe, you'll never beat Hawaii, though," she said sweetly.

"S'a long shot," Gibbs said, shrugging. "It's a tough course, too – you think you'd be okay, with livin' overseas, at some embassy?"

Shannon laughed.

"Would I be okay – hmm," she feigned indecision. "Do we get to pick the embassy? If it's any place other than Rome, I will _demand_ a divorce."

He rolled towards her, snatching her close to him, his fingers digging gently into her ribs, tickling her. He shook his head, giving her a very stern look.

"You think I'd let you get away?"

"What are you doing to do – _lock_ me in a tower? Rapunzel is a German story; I _suppose_ I could content myself there," she drawled. She laughed, squirming away from him, biting her lower lip. She sat up and leaned over him, cocking her head. "I can live anywhere, with you," she said.

He made a face; she scrunched her nose, and swept down to kiss him.

He held her close, hardly believing he'd gotten this lucky – he didn't feel like he deserved it; he felt like he'd missed his chance at this, in nineteen eighty-seven; he'd never thought he'd be with anyone but Jenny, and even after that had ended, he'd never thought he'd find someone he felt comfortable with – he was a closed person, a hard nut to crack.

He only wished – he wished his mother could know Shannon; his mother would love her – of course, his mother had loved Jenny, and Natalie; she'd always been calm, logical, and understanding of all, even those who treated her poorly, and maybe Gibbs saw some of that in Shannon – that saint-like willingness to forgive, and dissect, and understand.

He rolled her over, holding his body over hers just enough that he wasn't too heavy, and pushing his forehead against hers. She opened her eyes and ran her hands over his chest, ultimately wrapping her arms around him and pulling her tightly close to him.

"Aloha, Mrs. Gibbs," he growled gallantly, smirking charmingly.

"Aloha," she said back, bursting into a bright smile.

He grinned, and lowered his lips to hers, tilting her head up – and he thought, with some relief, and with a fading amount of pain, that maybe this year at Kaneohe Bay would be therapeutic in someway, would be healing – _maybe_ it would be the first time since he came back from infantry school to a letter left in Stillwater that he felt like his life was – going to be okay.

* * *

The time came for PCS before the decision was made on his promotion, thus with both the promotion and his application for Marine Security Guard training hanging in a sort of administrative limbo, in nineteen ninety-three Gibbs was ordered to good old Camp Pendleton – for the third time, he was at this base that sat perilously close to where his past had run off to, and damned if it wasn't the universe constantly trying to get under his skin.

Shannon herself seemed to think it was a sign.

Tying back her hair in a soft purple bandana – a kerchief that made her look like a radiant, redheaded Cinderella, she popped open another box, slicing through tape with her teeth and then spitting it aside and clearing her throat.

"Pendleton is a damn sight better than Missouri," she said, poking around to explore what was in the box. "It's a good transition from Hawaii, I suppose," she sighed dramatically, smiling. "Hell, I would have taken Missouri over – where did they almost send you, _Kosovo_? Jethro – this is kitchen stuff, why did you label it bedroom?"

He shrugged lamely, eyeing the box.

"Still might send me to Kosovo," he muttered. He had a feeling that he'd been kept statewide just in case things turned out with his promotion and whatnot, though that was strangely accommodating for the Corps.

"Hmm," Shannon made a quiet sniffing noise. "Well, at least I could go with you to Missouri," she murmured, haphazardly pushing the box aside.

They'd been assigned their place at Pendleton about a week after arriving, and both of them had been lazy on moving in and getting settled – Shannon was uncertain she wanted to stay on base; she was itching to try and buy property somewhere, so they'd have a place when he left the Marines.

"Jethro," she growled, glaring at another box. "These are tools, but they're labeled kitchen – were you _drunk_ when you packed? Why are all these wrong?" she asked, raising her eyes good-naturedly to the heavens.

"'Cause I'm useless," Gibbs answered, deadpan.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured coolly. She leaned on the box, and shot him a look. "I'm opening a bottle of wine," she said abruptly.

She sashayed out of the living room and into the kitchen, where at least the fridge was up, running, and organized. He watched her go, and then sat down on the very simple couch they'd brought with them from Oahu. She returned moments later, handing him a longneck beer, and sitting on the floor at his feet.

"We're never going to get unpacked," she said dramatically.

"Not if you keep drinkin' before 5 o'clock," he snorted.

"Hey," she quipped, checking her watch – the watch he'd gotten her for Christmas, some fancy brand she had admired, but never expected him to get for her. "It's five o'clock in – New York."

"Cheers," Gibbs said seriously, knocking his bottle lightly against her glass.

She slipped her arm around his leg and held onto him loosely, leaning back lazily against the sofa – it was a nice little place; base housing on Pendleton was nothing to complain about – but the thing with military housing was, you never quite felt like it was your own. She'd noticed already that, over by the stairs, there were faint measurement marks – the occupants before them had been diligently measuring the heights of Susie, Betty, and Kyle.

She tilted her head back and looked at him passively.

"You know what you should do once we're settled in," she began – and it wasn't a question at all; it was an open-ended statement.

She popped her eyebrows up pointedly, and he glared at her sharply a moment.

"Shannon," he started.

She shrugged.

"It's not even two hours away, Jethro; you can't tell me it's impossible – you can't tell me it's not killing you to be this close."

"I still work weekends half the time," he muttered.

"I would be more than happy to keep Natalie if that ever happens on a day we establish – "

"There is no way in hell Jen would – "

"To hell with _Jen_ ," Shannon said sharply. Gibbs gave her a startled look – Shannon was never hostile about Jenny. She gave him a sharp shrug, and a brazen look. "I am _not_ some casual fling you're running around town with; I'm your wife. We've been married over a year. And," she said primly, "hate to break it to you, bud, but I plan on being your wife forever."

Gibbs gave her look of feigned horror.

"Forever?"

"Until fire consumes the earth."

"Guess I shoulda read the fine print."

She rolled her eyes, and pinched his knee hard, and then immediately pulled away, her face falling. He yanked his leg to the side and, reflexively, darted his hand out to smack her hand away from the old injury – the scar tissue was perpetually tender – the muscle had never gone back to normal; pressure irritated it.

She reached out for his leg, her hand alighting gently on the sore spot, leaning close hesitantly.

"I'm so sorry, Jethro," she said quickly. "I – "

He shook his head, leaning back. The tenseness that had shot through him when she'd pinched him evaporated, and he leaned back again, giving her a nod – he was okay; he knew she hadn't meant to. He gestured at her with his beer warily.

"If you're gonna start abusing me – "

"Oh, shut up."

"The Corps takes spousal abuse _very_ seriously," he recited stiffly.

"I guess I'll have to beat you into silence, then."

He leaned forward and pushed his hand through her hair, throwing it over her face messily, knotting it up and grinning.

"Gonna cuff me first?"

She squirmed away from him, swatting at his hands, careful not to spill her wine. She burst into laughter and turned, facing him, one leg pulled up to her chest.

"Charming," she crooned softly, cocking one eyebrow. "Back to the point."

"Damn," he groused, giving her another glare – she shrugged; she was not an easily distracted woman, and she was aware of his attempts to deflect the conversation – he always deflected the conversation now.

There was some kind of shift in the way he'd been before his coma and after; he was so skittish of the Natalie subject now, that he even let it start brief arguments between them, due to his refusal to start trying to make contact, or pick the ball back up – she knew he was protecting himself, and she didn't blame him, but she still thought it was a better strategy for him to do nothing that could give Jenny anything to critique, and unfortunately abandoning attempts to be involved did just that.

"I want you to think about it, Jethro – "

"I think about it," he growled.

"No, I want you to think about it harder," she said firmly. "There is nothing about you that is threatening, or untrustworthy, or bad for a child to be around – I have never thought any of this was your fault, but I don't want you to regret giving up – "

"I haven't given up!" he snapped.

"Yes, you have," she said calmly. "We've been here three weeks, and you haven't even tried to call."

He rubbed his forehead, and he learned forward, holding his beer in two hands. He looked down at it narrowly, swallowed, and looked at his wife.

"I have thought about it, Shannon," he said huskily. He shrugged. "She's – eight, she hasn't seen me since she was – practically a toddler," he listed, frustrated. He lifted his palm and rubbed his forehead, wrinkling his brow. "What if I show up and it just…upsets her, or – "

"Jen – "

"'M not talkin' about Jen; I don't give a damn about Jenny," he said harshly. " _Natalie_. It might – freak her out, stress her out, and I can't explain to 'er where the hell I've been – "

"You're afraid of _rejection_ ," Shannon said softly.

He bristled uncomfortably, but said nothing. She sighed, reaching out and rubbing his thigh.

"She's young, she's still at a resilient age," Shannon ventured. "I don't think it would be as bad as you think, even if it was strange for a while – "

"I don't even know how long we'll be at Pendleton," he growled.

"Excuses."

"Christ, Shannon, don't you think it's just better to leave it? Jen's probably got 'er brainwashed – "

"Yes," Shannon said, her eyes boring into his. She got up, setting her glass of wine aside, and she sat down next to him, close, taking his chin firmly. "But, when the day comes that Natalie comes looking for you, don't you want to tell her you did _everything_ you could?"

She let go of him, and let that sink in. He stared down at the beer in his hands again and grit his teeth – of course he wanted that – he still thought about Natalie every day; he wondered what she was doing, what she was like – what she thought about him, if she did.

He swallowed hard.

"I miss her," he admitted quietly.

Shannon leaned back against the couch, rubbing his shoulder gently.

"I know, honey," she murmured. "Look, if the word custody, or visitation is too ominous, just – feel out the situation, maybe," she suggested thoughtfully. "I'll stay in the background for as long as I need to, if that's less threatening."

He nodded – when he'd gotten these orders, back to Pendleton, it had brought a lot of this back up, simmering just below the surface, because he knew it was his responsibility to start making definitive decision about it again, to really start thinking about it, and facing it – the peace and bliss of Hawaii was gone, he hadn't quite gotten the orders he put in for – and it might just be because fate was trying to tell him something.

"I'm still going to send holiday cards," Shannon said stubbornly. "At the very least, I will make sure the door is open for her." She paused. "And Jenny's not stupid. She knows _you're_ not sending cards."

Gibbs smiled a little. He clenched his teeth and nodded to himself.

"I'll call 'er," he said.

Shannon smiled, relieved. She really did think it would be good for him – she knew he always felt guilty about Natalie, that he always had some shadows in his heart and mind about her, and what had happened years ago.

"Natalie, or Jenny?" she clarified.

He sighed, more a groan than anything else. He took a long drink.

"Jen," he said dryly. "Got to call her first."

As much as he didn't want to talk to her – she always reminded him that he'd felt like such a failure back then – he wouldn't dare try to get to Natalie without discussing it with Jen, and he didn't really think it would be outrageous if he did try that, and she got angry. He wasn't about to do anything that might make Natalie some sort of pawn in a power play.

Shannon laid her head on his shoulder, and then slid her hand down his chest, shooting a shifty look at the boxes.

"We could always leave this until tomorrow…"

"What did you have in mind, instead?" he asked seriously.

"Staff Sergeant, you home?"

Gibbs bolted upright, a reaction to being shouted at by an officer – even at home and out of uniform, he couldn't help but act like he'd just been thrown into a vat of hot water when a higher rank showed up – and this one was standing at the door, bellowing through the flimsy screen.

"Jethro," griped Shannon lightly. "You spilled that beer on me."

She brushed at the front of her blouse, rolled her eyes, and got up, putting her hands on her hips.

"You can come on in, Matt," she said breezily.

The perks of being the wife – she didn't have to twitch like a little girl when a higher rank barged in unannounced.

Gibbs stood up, half at-ease, caught off guard – there wasn't any reason he could think of as to why a warrant officer was dropping by casually on a Saturday afternoon. He nodded quickly, setting aside his drink.

"Sir," he greeted.

He gave a small, respectful salute – Matt Watkins was in uniform, even if Gibbs wasn't.

The other Marine looked around the house with interest, smirking a little. He stepped closer to Gibbs, adjusting his collar, and then reached into the front of his uniform, pulling out a thick envelope and extending his hand. Gibbs stepped forward, and extended his hesitantly, reaching for the envelope; Watkins instead shook his head firmly, squeezing with admirable force, and then relaxed the handshake and placed the envelope in Gibbs' hand.

"I got documents on an approved appointment to MSG school for you about a month ago," he said gruffly. "I sent 'em back, told 'em you're married and your rank doesn't qualify for havin' a dependent with you – promotion came down the chain of command three days ago." Watkins nodded sharply. "Guess they got their signals crossed."

Gibbs looked at the thick envelope, unsure what to think – he'd just been ordered to Pendleton, he'd been here working, taking care of things, this didn't meant -?

"I know the guy runnin' the MSG course up there in Stafford," Watkins snorted. "He'll hand your ass to you on a silver platter, kid, but I reckon a Silver Star recipient can take what he dishes – reckon that star's the only reason you got bumped up, too, at your age," he growled, an edge to his voice.

He nodded his head.

"Good luck, Gunnery Sergeant. Have to admit, I'm sorry I won't be workin' with you."

He turned sharply on his heel, stopping a moment to respectfully incline his head to Shannon.

"Mrs. Gibbs, ma'am," he greeted.

She gave him a small, amused wave, and watched him leave, still until he was out the door – then she darted over to Gibbs, taking his arm and watching him as he gingerly examined, and then opened, the unexpected envelope. She watched him read, his eyes moving, and she waited patiently – she wasn't sure what it meant, what had just happened.

He sat down on the couch heavily, rubbing his jaw, the papers fluttering. He gave a snort, somewhat exasperated.

"What's wrong?" Shannon asked perceptively. "You wanted – you put in for the promotion, for MSG school – "

"Yeah," he said – and it was what he wanted; the near assurance that at least for a while, he wouldn't be sent anywhere that might get him killed, or might force him to leave Shannon – it was just an extremely chaotic change of orders to get. "It's PCS, Shannon, MSG school's at Quantico."

Her lips parted – she knew that, though; they'd spent the last few months in Hawaii, with orders to Pendleton, waiting to see if this would come up. She moved closer, her arms folded. He looked up at her warily.

"I've got to be there in two weeks," he said, glancing around at their boxes – well it was a damn good thing they'd been so sluggish moving in.

She sat down, and put her hands on his knees.

"That's – okay, so we'll move; they can put us up at Quantico, can't they?"

He nodded, waving his hand – yes; luckily, housing wasn't an issue.

"Jethro – this could work well; I wanted to go to Quantico, anyway, I want – we can buy a house there, invest in property – "

"You know after MSG school, I got to go to embassies – "

"Yes," she agreed, "but someday, we'll settle down. I can look at places in Virginia, find a home," she smiled at him slowly. "I can call you Gunny now," she added proudly.

He turned his head and gave her a small smile, but there was uncertainty in his eyes, a resurgence of guilt, and her smile faded a little. She clicked her tongue, and her shoulders fell a little – but she gave him a determined look.

"What about Natalie?" he said, turning and looking back at the orders – the whole goddamn thing was never going to stop haunting him, hounding him.

Shannon slipped her hand into his.

"You're going to see her before we leave," she said firmly; confidently.

Gibbs gave her a small smile, tightening his grip on her hand, and he folded up the orders, letting her words simmer – he tried to believe that, but something told him she was wrong; he'd barely opened his mind to the idea of pushing for contact with her while at Pendleton, and they wanted him on the east coast in fourteen days – he didn't want to put himself through it; he thought to himself, no matter what Shannon said, that maybe it was just better, after all, not to stir things up.

* * *

He had been staring pointedly at his left hand, ring finger, for what felt like an eternity; the tan line was obvious, glowing – but he'd chosen not to wear his ring; he'd decided to come to this beach – the same beach he'd seen Natalie on four years ago – with his guard up, his emotions firmly locked in some unreachable vault, and no clues about his life – he felt it was all he could do, the best he could do, to preserve his dignity around – her; _Jen_.

He'd given the ring to Shannon for safe-keeping, and he wasn't sure if it bothered her that he'd taken it off. The thing was, he wasn't trying to hide her from Jenny; he wasn't sorry for her, or ashamed of her; he just didn't want Jenny to know anything about his life. She had chosen to leave him; she lost her right to information.

He hadn't wanted to do this; he had just wanted to let it drop, especially since he was being sent to Quantico – but Shannon was right; he couldn't be here, so close, and not reach out. The worst that could happen was the same thing that always happened, and then he'd at least be able to blame Jenny – as usual.

She had seemed cautious on the phone, even reluctant – he sensed today was somehow inconvenient for her, but he was leaving for Virginia in four days, and he'd been insistent. He hadn't slept last night – he couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like to see Natalie after all these years, and he almost wished he'd asked Shannon to come with him and wait in the car – but Shannon had a medical evaluation today; the military had to clear her for overseas living, and that needed to be done before he got so deep into MSG school that it would be a nightmare to pull him out.

He wondered what Natalie thought of him – he wondered what she'd look like, he wondered –

"Jethro."

He sat up slowly, turning his head sharply at the familiar, raspy sound of her hesitant voice. He met her eyes briefly, and looked away, taking her in quickly enough so that it didn't look like he was paying her any attention – she was dressed in strangely formal attire – and then he turned his head subtly to several sides, looking, searching – but it wasn't just that he didn't recognize her; there was simply no one with Jenny at all.

She'd come alone.

He swallowed hard.

"Where's Natalie?" he asked roughly.

He didn't bother greeting her, didn't bother with polite pleasantries.

"I didn't bring her," Jenny answered – it was a painfully honest answer, and he hated for it; it was clear she hadn't brought her – he could see that; and, he should have known.

He looked down at his interlocked fingers again, eyeing the tan line on his ring finger for strength, and he smiled bitterly. He leaned back and shrugged his shoulders sharply, as if he was shaking it off – all that time last night, worrying, ordering himself not to get his hopes up, and he still had, he realized – and she'd never even explicitly said she'd bring Natalie, she'd just told him where she'd meet him, and he'd said he wanted to see her.

On some level, he knew even on the phone that she wasn't going to bring their daughter.

"Figured," he said coolly, with as much of an air of unconcern as he could manage.

To his surprise, she sat down on the bench next to him, pressing her legs together tightly, turning almost earnestly towards him.

"What did you expect, Jethro? It's been years since she's seen you."

He kept looking at his hands. He didn't need her to remind him of that, but this time, he had a hard time being aggressive; he had a hard time throwing it in her face and being the person in the right – because he had, for all intents and purposes, turned his back after that deployment; he'd even stopped sending letters and packages.

"You said call, anytime," he said, remembering her false words from so many years ago. "And I'd see her."

She was quick to get defensive, to retort:

"That was before you dropped off the planet! You haven't even called, like you used to – I know it would have been hard at first, to get leave, but now – "

He turned towards her sharply, his jaw hardening.

"You made it pretty clear, last time I saw her," he growled in a low voice, "that me doin' that would just confuse her," he spat. "I got the idea you didn't want me around, Jen," he said critically.

And it was the truth – he remembered that day on this beach, playing with Natalie, how displeased Jen had been; how she didn't want him buying her presents, how she felt undermined, how she tried not to let Natalie get attached – he'd felt ostracized, out of place; not truly welcome – something, he now realized, he should have pushed back against harder – after all, Jenny's parents weren't together, and Jenny herself had never been deprived of one of them.

"Jethro, I didn't mean – " she started to say, and broke off, her eyes wide. She changed gears. "It was the kind of worry all mothers have. I didn't mean take yourself out of her life completely."

"You wouldn't let me talk to her before Kuwait," he lashed out coldly – it was only half true; she had let him, but he'd had to fight even then.

"That was – you wanted to tell her you were off to fight bullets!" she sputtered. "That kind of stress – "

"You made your point more than once, Jen," he said over her, decisively, "when you tried to pretend you didn't run off with her."

Jenny turned away from him, her eyes on the ocean. He looked at her profile, searching for a crack in the mask, for a sign of her being worn down – maybe he could get her to take him back with her to see Natalie; maybe he could get through to her.

"Why are you here, Jethro?" she asked warily.

He tensed, swallowing with difficulty – this was going to be the part that killed him, because he knew what her reaction was going to be; he knew he was screwed, and he barely had any footing, but at Shannon's behest, and deep down in his own soul, he couldn't leave without trying.

"I've got orders to Quantico," he revealed stiffly. "Got a new MOS, with a promotion." He started to explain more, and then – he said nothing, and he glanced over, catching her eye hesitantly, intently studying her. "I wanted to see her, Jen. More. Talk to her."

"Quantico?" she blurted, almost before he finished. "Where - ?"

"Virginia. Outside of D.C.," he said grudgingly.

That did it; her reaction was instantaneous – he saw the immediate denial on her face before she even spoke.

"You want – _how_ , Jethro?" she demanded, an edge of hysteria to her voice. "You want me to send her across the country every other weekend? For _summers_? You've been in Pendleton for years and now – "

"I haven't been at Pendleton this whole time," he corrected curtly.

Something sharp flickered in her eyes for a moment, and he silently dared her to ask – eh didn't even know what he'd tell her, if she asked what he'd been doing. Instead, the flicker died, and she gave him a hard, steely look.

"How do you think this is going to work?" she demanded.

He grit his teeth – that was the kicker, wasn't it? He'd had – privately, even before Shannon started provoking him – he'd had a plan; he was going to settle in at Pendleton, then start calling, then he was going to ask for a couple of hours on Saturday, and once Jenny got used to it, he was going to make a call to her father, explain his side, and take it to court – work his way to, at the very least, every other weekend – and then he'd re-evaluate when he PCS'd.

But – that had all been disrupted when he got his sudden PCS to Quantico, and now he didn't have a plan; just the old sore confusion, and desperation, and guilt – and dull anger.

He felt he was put on the spot – and he'd hardly had a chance to discuss it with Shannon, but she'd said she could accommodate what he needed to do; he knew she'd be okay with him flying to see Natalie once in a while, so he went out on a limb –

"I'd take leave to see her," he said gruffly. "I'd call, she'd call." He grit his teeth, and looked at Jen shortly, the lines in his face stiff. "I'm tryin', here," he said, though he thought he sounded weak and unconvincing.

She was already shaking her head.

"No," she said, her hair flying. "No - she hasn't seen you, she _barely_ knows you – Jethro, this is out of left field! When I said – when I said you could see her or talk to her anytime, back then, that was when I _thought_ you'd establish a pattern, that you'd make more of a concentrated effort while she was little, so she'd grow up with a clear understanding – you can't just _barge_ back in when she's cognitive of the more complex issues – "

" _Cognitive of the more complex issue?"_ he snapped, provoked by her fancy terminology – God, she was the same Jen – older, and more reserved, perhaps, but the same Jen he'd loved as a teenager, except right now her smarts and her ability to rationalize her points irritated the hell out of him. "We aren't in a courtroom, Jenny, Christ," he swore.

"This is a very real issue, Jethro. She's not this resilient little toddler anymore. She's smart, she's sensitive, she _gets_ things - "

"How would I know that, Jen?" he asked coldly. "I don't know a damn thing about her."

"You know how old your daughter is," she retorted, just as icy. "Think about how it might affect her if someone suddenly wanted to be her _Daddy_ out of nowhere."

That little comment – the fact that she dared act like he was the one who had initially failed, like he was the one who had screwed up, or been careless – he was actually shaken by how much hatred he felt for her at that moment, he was overwhelmed by the urge to physically lash out – an urge which he, of course, fought down and controlled with impeccable skill.

He caught her green eyes, nothing but sinister to him in this moment, no longer beautiful, or captivating, just pools that reflected his resentment, how wronged he was.

"I always wanted to be her Daddy," he barked harshly – he wanted no mistake made there. He was so angry his eyes were stinging, dry with rage; he remembered distinctly the first time Natalie called him Daddy, in her high-pitched, adoring little voice – he _remembered_ that.

He grit his teeth, and dug deeper.

 _"You_ made it this hard, Jenny. You took her out of Stillwater, and so help me God, _you_ never made this easy. You ever think I kept my distance so she wouldn't have to sense how much her father resented her mother?"

Jenny drew back some, her face paling slightly – and he felt no regret over his words; she would understand that – maybe she genuinely even feared that. It wasn't the whole truth – but on some level, he knew personally that it was awful for children to be around parents who couldn't get along; they always ended up picking a side, or hating themselves, or someone – just like he couldn't stand his own father, for every single time he'd done his mother wrong.

Jenny looked defeated, hollow; she took a deep breath.

"I can't confuse her," she said stiffly. "I can't disrupt her life. I don't know what you've been doing, who you associate with – and she's content; she's doing well. This would be – upheaval," she broke off.

She twisted her hands nervously in her lap, and she looked on the verge of bursting into tears, or of demanding he tell her more what this was about – she looked wary, she looked like she didn't understand him, or trust him – and in a wild moment he almost felt he should tell her it was the coma that had screwed up him, thrown him off, that he couldn't bear to call his daughter and hear her talk when every other night he'd been waking up in cold sweats and blind fevers, haunted by Matteson, haunted by dead Iraqi little girls, trying to remember why his life was the way it was, trying to control himself.

But he couldn't say it; she hadn't been there, she wouldn't understand – she might even think he was dangerous.

She was still – talking; stoic, self-righteous.

"You're about to move across the country," Jenny said, quiet, defeated. "This came – out of nowhere, Jethro," she went on tiredly. "I'm – she's in a good place. I'm not going to do this to her."

She talked like he was an affliction, a curse she'd be saddling Natalie with – and he felt so gutted, so defeated – God, he'd told Shannon he didn't want to do this; he never wanted to do this again. He was only able to give a faint, bitter smile.

He swallowed, grasping at one last Hail Mary.

"I've got rights, Jen," he said dully. "I know I've got 'em."

She reacted immediately, a mother backed into a corner, and her teeth veritable bared.

"You take me to court," she said softly, almost a challenge. "You drag her through that. You – what would you do, Jethro? Take her on specific dates, so you could poison her against me, tell her what an unrepentant _bitch_ I am, depriving her so cruelly of you? She's – you'd be a monster to – "

The last thing he was here to do was be called a monster. He ignored the guard he'd had around his speech for this conversation, he opened his mouth and let whatever was on the tip of his tongue fly out:

"Nah," he said hoarsely. "Think I'll wait until she's old enough to figure that out herself, Jen."

She blanched, and he tightened his fist on his knee, wishing he had his ring on, suddenly, resisting the urge to ask her if she was happy – to demand to know if she'd really found a better life, if she'd found someone to love her like he'd love her. He wanted to tell her what she'd lost, and throw in her face how much Shannon meant to him, now.

She shuddered slightly, and turned away; he figured she was fighting tears – deep down, that bothered him, touched him a little; the surreal thing was, when she looked at him, when he met her eyes, he still saw the same girl who'd stared at him on the banks of the creek in Stillwater, scared, hoping he'd stay with her, and take care of her; he didn't know what she saw in his eyes, but to his ultimate confusion and dismay, he saw very clearly that this woman still olved him, and that – he couldn't be around that; he didn't understand it – and he didn't want it.

He got up, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"This it, Jen?" he asked abruptly.

It didn't matter what Shannon asked, said, or thought when he got home – he was not doing this again. He was never going to present himself to Jenny again, just to be weighed, measured, and found inexplicably wanting; he was not going to offer himself up as an absurd sacrifice to her maddening way of thinking, and then be thrown into confusion because he didn't know how she could be like this, act like this, and still look at him like they were sixteen in the back of his truck, counting on forever.

He scuffed his foot in the sand.

"'M not doin' this again, with you; I can't," he said hollowly. He felt defeated; he felt a certain amount of guilt, for what he was deciding, because it invariably affected Natalie, but he'd have to come to terms with that, and if the day ever came when she wanted answers from him, he'd do his best – and he would be there to make Jen come clean.

He took a deep breath.

"If she ever wants me, I'll answer," he said. "I'll show up. I won't turn her down because you screwed up."

If it meant flying back from Korea, Japan, Australia, the moon – it didn't matter where, if that child called him and wanted to see him, talk to him, know his story; he'd be on a plane; he decided, then and there, that this time, he'd find a way. He hoped she heard the unspoken threat in her voice; he silently vowed to step back completely, now, to acquiesce to her cutting him off, but it meant that when Natalie reached out, his gloves were off.

She tucked her hair back, took a breath, and then got up and turned quickly – _lightening_ quick. He was struck suddenly by how – absurdly she was dressed, like she'd just walked out of a World War Two film. She said nothing, but she brought out a photo, and handed it to him – and when she touched is hand, he thought for an absurd moment that she was going to kiss him – and if she had, he'd – he'd have –

He didn't know what he would have done.

His eyes fell on the photo; Jenny and Natalie – Natalie, dressed in some sort of doctor's lab coat, smiling beautifully – she looked, he noticed, very much like his mother and, to his delight, very much like _him_. He wanted to ask what the picture was from, but he was done talking to Jenny – and he resented her, kneeling there next to Natalie.

In a decisive, cold movement, he tore the photo in half, and handed the part with her in it back.

His jaw moved slightly; he thought about saying something – he tried to think of some epic fatal words, something that would ring in her ears – but he had nothing. He was exhausted; he was tired of this – he missed his daughter, he was sorry all this had happened, and he couldn't go on fighting a losing battle. Instead of saying anything, he simply turned on his heel, and he left her standing there – and he didn't look back.

In fact, all the way to his truck, he kept his eyes on this picture of Natalie, memorizing it – her hair was so long, auburn, soft, dark like his, rather than redder like Jenny's; she had blue eyes, still, his nose, Ann's saintly, bright smile – and he had missed so much, and he was going to miss so much.

He tucked the photo in his pocket for the drive home, and he tried to steel himself to face Shannon – he tried not to feel relief, and he tried to ignore the guilt he felt for having to ignore the relief – but Christ, as hard as it was to walk away, to feel like this was the last chance, there was some horrible weight lifted in knowing that maybe this wouldn't constantly flare up again – now.

He got home, and Shannon was cooking in the kitchen, using what little stuff they had left out, hadn't already shipped to Quantico. He knew she heard him come in, but she let him come to her – and come to her he did, pressing his lips to the back of her read gently, and then leaning into a corner in the kitchen, his face unreadable.

He finally took out the photo, and handed it to her, while she said nothing – waiting, giving him patience.

Shannon held the photo, and smiled, her eyes crinkling fondly.

"God, she's gorgeous, Jethro, look at her!" her fingers moved over the photo. "Was this a Halloween costume, a party…?"

Gibbs shrugged.

"Didn't ask," he said.

Shannon looked up at him, pursing her lips, and he, in an effort not to fall apart completely, tried to give a glib, knowing smirk.

"Jen didn't bring her," he said.

His voice was hoarse, though, full of no bravado, and it cracked, ever so subtly, at the end.

She set the picture aside and came forward, placing her hands on his shoulders. She stood there a moment, then gave him a good, long huge, and stepped back, sighing.

"I try to keep an open mind. I try to understand," she murmured. She sighed, ribbing his arm. "I _don't_ understand her."

She said it with no malice; Shannon, having not actually been involved in any of it, had no real feelings of hatred or anger towards Jenny, just a quiet mystification, and some disgruntled curiosity. She had admired Jenny Shepard, when she was young, and now she was just at a loss to rationalize the other woman's actions – but she, with a sense of practicality – refused to bear ill will towards someone she didn't truly _know_.

She had just – hoped today would go better, for Jethro. She hadn't expected how her day was going to go, and her state of mind for the next few days – kind of hinged on him.

Gibbs put his hands behind him and gripped the counter, the muscles in his arms standing out tensely. He shrugged, clearly trying to shrug it off; he stared at the ceiling for a while, then tightened his jaw and looked at her stubbornly, decisively.

"That was it, Shannon," he said hoarsely, the same thing he'd told Jenny. "I'm not doing that again. I can't go through that again."

She simply nodded, without saying anything.

"Okay," she said gently, her hand still resting on his arm. "Okay." She swallowed lightly. "I'm still going to send them Holiday cards," she confessed firmly.

He shrugged. He didn't care – she could do that; she always sent them to his father, too, and when she called her parents, she called his father – and Gibbs, occasionally, spoke some cordial words to Jackson – until last time, Jackson had asked what he was doing about Natalie, and Gibbs hung up the phone and refused to speak to him anymore.

He reached up and rubbed his forehead, thinking about getting a beer. He sighed harshly.

"How'd your thing go?" he asked, trying to force himself to act like this was any normal day. "You get a medical clearance?"

He thought for a hysterical moment of how ridiculous it would be if she didn't, and they were told to stay at Pendleton, and suddenly he was close enough for his initial plan again –

Shannon bit her lip thoughtfully, and nodded slowly. She opened her mouth, hesitant – she fervently wished his day had gone better, that he was in a better mood, because she really didn't know how this was going to strike him. She could wait – theoretically, it was very early – but now, she wanted to tell him; she took a deep breath.

"I…don't know if this is going to make you feel better or…worse," she began frankly, though respectfully, "or if you'll be…happy – "

"What's wrong?" he asked warily, eyeing her intently.

He didn't like his wife acting nervous when she'd just had a medical evaluation; it made him think about his mother.

She lifted her shoulders a little, spreading out her hands.

"I'm pregnant," she said softly.

He genuinely looked startled. His pupils dilated slightly, and then his mouth fell open, and he looked at her, wide-eyed – almost as if he needed her to explain to him how the hell she'd gotten pregnant. She bit her lip slightly, and crossed her arms.

"I know, we only discussed it briefly, that one time, and I know I'm the one who said it might be better to see what happened with Natalie, but we also knew I was out of birth control, and we still…" she trailed off, and after a hesitant moment, she frowned. "Jethro, can you say something?"

He vividly, _starkly_ remembered the last time he'd heard someone tell him she was pregnant, and he was acutely aware of how _overwhelmingly_ different this moment was. He remembered – in Stillwater, feeling like Jen had ripped his insides out and obliterated the world they knew, but right now, he looked at Shannon, and all he felt was –

 _Happy._

He reached out and pulled her close, resting his hands on her neck. He looked at her intently, his eyes searching, going up.

"You are?" he asked.

She nodded a few times, smiling a little cautiously.

"When…?"

"Um," she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. She cocked her head. "Late March, early April – it's so early, Jethro, they only know because they did so many comprehensive tests, just a drug store test wouldn't have told us, yet – " she broke off, biting down on her lip. "Are you okay?" she asked earnestly. "Are you okay with this?"

He looked at her like she was crazy, and smiled. He put his arms around her in a hug, and pressed his lips to her ear.

"'Course I'm okay with this," he told her huskily.

He hugged her tightly – but not too tightly. She hugged him back, her muscles relaxing in relief. She closed her eyes, smiling into his chest; thank God, it's not like there's anything she'd be able to do about it – which she'd be willing to do – if he was unhappy.

"I'm so nervous," she murmured, shivering slightly. "You – I can't – you must have been _so_ scared, when you were sixteen."

He nodded, resting his chin lightly on top of her head – the strange thing was, he felt that now; he felt anxious, he felt scared – he had a child, but he hadn't really raised her – though he could confidently say he'd been able to help get an infant to at least two and a half without accidentally killing her. He was – he was twenty-five, now, almost twenty-six; this was when people were supposed to start having kids, start building families – and he still wasn't sure he'd know what he was doing.

It struck him how young he was, really – the way he'd grown up back then was odd, unnaturally; premature – and acknowledging that made him wonder if maybe – all this was a matter of he and Jen still just needing to grow up; there were things they weren't seeing about each other because they didn't know each other anymore.

That was her fault, undoubtedly, but standing here, holding Shannon, with the prospect of another baby on the horizon he just felt – a little better. He ran his hand over her back, kissing the top of her head, and then she pulled back, looking at him brightly.

He felt a little off, feeling so content when there was a considerable amount of discontent, of unresolved tension and issue, in his past – and that wasn't going to go away – but things were much less desolate than he'd thought they would be, when he first found himself alone – and he felt validated, in all he'd done; this is what he'd told Jenny he was going to do: join the Marines, provide, make sure she want to college – and he _made_ good on that. He had been _right_. It just happened to be a different woman who had taken him up on the offer.

* * *

The intensive course that trained Marines to guard U.S. overseas embassies lasted weeks on end – it was demanding, and it was grueling, but in the end it was just training, and after deployment, no mere training was going to break a Marine. Gibbs was up at the crack of dawn and home late, tired and tense – always worried about Shannon, because despite a glowing start, pregnancy did not agree with her for a while there, and she was sick when he left, and often still when he got home.

Still, somehow, she managed to find her dream house, and two weeks before he graduated the course, they bought it – it was in Alexandra, which was more than a stone's throw away from Quantico, but she'd taken one look and fallen in love – and they'd gotten a good deal, buying from a retiring Marine who was taking his family back to Arizona.

She was content to leave making the house a home for when they eventually returned and settled permanently – after Gibbs' tenure as a detachment commander over the next several years, he'd have more choice in where he could go and he promised he'd put in for Quantico, Pax River, or some Marine detachment in the D.C. area bases.

He was glad she was adaptable to the moves, because immediately upon completion of the course, they was transferred to the MSG united headquarters in Frankfurt, Germany, while he awaited his official orders to an embassy.

They had both been busy trying not to get too comfortable in Germany – although, compared to military housing, State Department housing was out of this world – because Gibbs had put his name in the hat for the embassies in Poland, Portugal, and Greece. He'd wanted somewhere that would be relatively safe for his wife and baby, when it came along, but he knew he wouldn't get any of the coveted big ones like Paris or London.

As I were, he'd been in the office to pick up his official orders today, and what he got was the complete opposite of anything he'd asked for:

Detachment Commander, U.S. Embassy: Baghdad, Iraq.

After everything he'd done to try to avoid being thrust into that kind of desert nightmare again, and they were sending him exactly there.

He was lingering on base, unsure how to tell Shannon. She had been so…resilient about all the insane, quick changes – and she'd even handled doctors appointments and whatnot alone – he just didn't want to do this to her, he didn't want to see her face when he told her he had to go to a volatile embassy where she wasn't allowed to go; he didn't want to tell her that…he'd be gone when the baby was born.

Though, the only slightly bright side about being sent to hazard hotspots was that the assignment lasted only a year, and he'd have greater pull in requesting his next location.

He still didn't want to go home and tell her. He'd been pretty sure he was going to get Krakow.

He kept the orders in his back pocket, tucked away tightly, and adjusted his cover on his head as he strolled through a more rural part of the base. He stopped outside a pen filled with an obstacle course, where two female army officers and one airman were standing as they watched dogs run around.

The airman turned, and lifted his arm.

"Where they throw you, Gunny?" he asked.

Gibbs recognized him as his and Shannon's next-door neighbor, and he jogged over. He patted his pocket.

"Got to tell the wife first," he said, shaking the man's hand.

"Fair enough – good, bad?" he asked, feeling the atmosphere.

Gibbs set his jaw, and shrugged. The airman nodded.

"Gunny, Lieutenants Jardine and Olson," he introduced. "I just watched 'em run these dogs through an obstacle course."

Gibbs stepped into the pen when he was allowed, and looked down at the dogs – German Shepherd puppies, he thought – by the look of them.

"Future drug dogs – 'cept these three, they're future Marines," spoke up Jardine. She put her hands proudly behind her back. "First time we got almost a whole litter to pass – that little girl, though; she's out of the runnin' – failed again today."

Gibbs looked over to where she was pointing, and spotted a smaller dog, wagging its tail happily. It let another one tug on it's tailed, and then rolled over, kicking its feet in the air. He grinned, and crouched down, letting it come over to him.

"Couldn't hack it, huh?" he asked.

"Before you make any jokes," Olson said dryly, "this litter has five females, and four made it – only two of the males cut it."

Gibbs shared a look with the airman, and then looked at her.

"I don't doubt it," he said. "Which are the Marines?"

The lieutenants pointed them out.

"That one was slated for Marine training," Olson said, nodding at the one Gibbs was petting. "But she's – well, she's a little too friendly. She's sweet," she said, laughing. "We're gonna send the unit a Belgian Malinois instead."

Gibbs gave the small dog another gently scratch, and then got up. He started to say his goodbyes, and felt that dog dash at heels, and nip him.

" _Bug_!"

The trainer shouted sharply, and Gibbs turned to see her picking the dog up and taking her backwards, making her sit. She swatted her nose, but Gibbs looked at her intently, tilting his head.

"What did you call that dog?" he asked gruffly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Olson looked up, brushing blonde bangs out of her eyes. She squinted in the sun.

"Bug," she repeated simply.

Gibbs stared at her, and looked back at the wannabe Marine drug puppy, wagging its tail contently.

"Bug," he repeated.

"Short for Bugsy Malone," the trainer explained. "This whole litter, we named after gangsters. Bugsy, Capone, Dillinger, Cagney, Lacey," she listed. She scratched the dog's ears. "Bugsy didn't pass her tests, though," she said.

Gibbs stepped forward, and crouched down again, taking one hand out of his pocket and holding it out. The German shepherd licked his knuckles and whined. He considered her for a minute. She looked at him pleasantly, and then lunged forward and nipped at his knuckles playfully. She barked. He hesitated, and then asked:

"What happens to the dogs who don't pass?"

The lieutenant smiled.

"They don't get enlisted," she joked, rubbing Bugsy's back. "She won't be a Marine. She'll be adopted out."

Gibbs considered that. The dog was young – not a baby puppy, but a year or so old, clearly trainable, and the lieutenants said the disposition was too sweet.

"Hey, Bug," Gibbs said quietly, the nickname strange and guilty on his tongue. He swallowed, and looked to the trainer, tilting up his cover. He hardly thought about it before he asked.

"Think I can take 'er?" he asked gruffly.

Olson smiled at him, and shrugged good-naturedly; Gibbs rubbed the dog's snout gently, and managed to feel a little wary – he hoped Shannon wouldn't be too pissed at him, when he showed up with a dog – he just felt … well, maybe it would ease the Baghdad blow he had to hit her with, and he just – he'd heard the nickname, and it just seemed fate that he take the dog home with him.

He felt a little – obligated – to. Who knew where she'd end up if he didn't?

He let the airman's jokes about Shannon's wrath bounce off of him, and spent about an hour and a half longer than he had meant to at the center of base, filling out paperwork – then he accepted the leash they gave him for Bugsy – who now had an ownership birth certificate that christened her Bugsy Malone Gibbs – and carried the dog home with as much confidence as possible, considering his pregnant wife might actually murder him for bringing home what was technically a kind of baby.

Even though he was fully prepared to be confident about the whole thing, he still stood on the front doorstep like a chicken for about twenty minutes – and just when he'd about decided to go in and charmingly surprise Shannon with the dog, she opened the door, jumped back in surprise, and screamed.

He almost dropped the dog. The dog barked at her excitedly.

"Shannon, what the hell are you screamin' for?" he asked, amused.

"You – I didn't know you were there, you scared me!" she answered, her eyes fixed on the dog. "Get – come _in_ , what are you doing out here?"

He strolled in, and she shut the door behind him, shaking her head. She followed him as he ducked into their living area and sat down, letting the puppy down on the floor. It threw itself onto its back and started rolling around madly, tongue lolling out. She barked again, and Gibbs steeled himself before turning around and looking at Shannon with what he hoped was a devilishly handsome face.

She stood in the doorway, her arms folded lightly over the very subtle curve of her abdomen. She arched an eyebrow, and then sighed, prowling into the room. She sat down on the edge of the couch, and held her hands out.

"Look at you," she crooned at the dog gently. "Hi, baby," she said, petting her as she put her paws on Shannon's knees. Shannon scratched her affectionately around the neck. "Oh, my, my – if Daddy can't resist literal puppy dog eyes, what are we going to do about baby puppy eyes?" she asked, shooting him a _slightly_ chastising glance.

He managed to look appropriately sheepish. He sat back against an armchair, hanging his arms lazily over his knees, and watching still love on the puppy – at least she _seemed_ pleased with it. She smiled again, and looked up, sighing softly.

"You said you might stop and get Chinese food," she told him, arching a brow. "This is very different from Chinese food."

Gibbs gave her a serious look.

"Well, I heard some Asian cultures eat – "

"Are you joking, _Jethro_?"

He smirked a little, and then he shrugged.

"She failed Marine dog boot camp," he said, begging for sympathy.

"I was _craving_ kung pow chicken," Shannon reminded him. She let the dog scamper back over to Gibbs, where I wagged his tail and started chewing on the cover he'd taken off and laid on the floor next to him.

"Thought you might crave a puppy, when you saw it," he said seriously.

Shannon laughed good-naturedly.

"She's very cute."

She watched him tug on his cover a little, letting the dog chew on it if she wished, and then she caught his eye intently.

"Did you do something wrong?" she asked wryly. "I only got flowers when you spoiled the ending of _Planet of the Apes_."

"Shannon, that movie came out twenty years ago, you ever gonna shut up about that?"

She shook her head, biting her teeth, and he feigned annoyance for a moment before sighing, reaching into his back pocket, and throwing the orders on the floor in front of him. He stared at them a moment, and she flicked her eyes down, and then she frowned slightly, her lips turning down just a little.

"I'm sensing we aren't going to be laid back on a beach in Thessaloniki," she said dryly.

"Oh, I'll be gettin' a sunburn," he said shortly. He rubbed his jaw, and reached out to grab the dog before she could scamper into a room where they couldn't watch her. "Thought the dog could keep you company," he confessed.

She rubbed her hands lightly up and down her arms, chewing the inside of her lip gently – that wasn't – _good_. She appreciated the thought, but if she needed to be kept company, then –

"Where did you get assigned?"

He gave her a grim, resigned look.

"Embassy Baghdad," he said dully.

Shannon's face fell; she looked dismayed – he knew it must really disappoint her, because Shannon was very careful about never showing when she found his career to be strenuous or inconvenient. There were private moments, when he listened to her sleep at night, or saw her for the first time in three days after grueling work hours, that he remembered how Jenny had insisted it was much harder than he thought to marry a Marine, and he grudgingly had to admit that – it wouldn't have been easy for them.

"That's unaccompanied?" she asked – there was an edge of hope to her voice, but she was only asking for confirmation – she was pretty sure no dependents would be allowed in a zone like that.

He nodded.

She hugged herself a little.

"I – so, I, uh, have to go back to the States?" she asked uncertainly.

She didn't like the idea of being in that house in Virginia all alone – both because she was going to be a brand new mother soon, and because she'd probably have her mother come up and help her – and alone in that undecorated place or with Joanne Fielding, she'd go crazy.

Gibbs shook his head firmly.

"No, you can live here," he said. "In fact – you get the housing allowance if you stay here; you lose it if you go back Stateside."

It didn't make sense to him, but that was how it worked; since he was based out of Frankfurt, technically, she had the option to live there while he was at an unaccompanied post. If he'd been based out of the U.S., she'd have had to stay there to get her his housing allowance.

"I like it here," Shannon said. "I – this is an insanely stupid question, but I want to make sure – the baby, if it's born, here, it's a citizen of … America?"

Gibbs nodded.

"Yeah, just get him or her a document from the embassy," he said gruffly. He tilted his head. "You ask that doctor what it's gonna be?" he asked, needling her.

"I don't want to know," she retorted, for the thousandth time.

"I want to know," he growled.

"That takes the fun out of it – people didn't _used_ to be able to know – "

"Jenny knew!" he blurted. He put his hand to his forehead, and rolled his eyes, lifting his shoulders in a quiet apology. He rarely ever talked about her, and when he did, he always felt like he was somehow comparing Shannon to her, especially now – but Shannon never took it that way.

She gave him a look, and shrugged.

"Well, I don't know," she said simply. She clasped her hands together. "How long will you have to be in Baghdad?"

He gave her a stronger look, at that.

"Just at a year," he said earnestly. "I'll get R&R every eight weeks, so I can visit – and I'll get preference at a good post next round."

She lifted her chin, eyeing him seriously.

"You don't have to justify this to me, Jethro," she said softly. "I tell you all the time – how many times do I have to tell you? I _know_ I married a Marine. I _chose_ that."

He smiled at her faintly. The dog scrambled out of his arms and darted to Shannon, rolling over at her feet. She smiled and bent to rub her stomach, shooting Gibbs a look through her lashes.

"So, the little sweetie is to keep me company – dashing thought, Jethro, but you've saddled me with a puppy when I'm going to be alone with a baby!"

She tried to sound stern, but she could only feel a little sad – she didn't want to be alone when she had the baby, and she'd really be alone. She didn't know anyone here yet, and she hadn't gotten a job yet – hopefully she _would_ – but she'd been so sure Gibbs was going to be right by her side.

The puppy, though – she thought it was a strangely out of character thing, Gibbs wasn't usually one to drag home strays or do things on a whim – but she thought it adorable, and it would be nice to have something warm and protective in bed with her while Gibbs was gone, even if Frankfurt was safe, and she was surrounded by the U.S. military.

"What are we going to name you, hmm?" Shannon asked the puppy.

Gibbs hesitated, and then cleared his throat. He scratched the back of his head.

"Uh, she, uh – she has a name," he said gruffly. "It's…Bugsy Malone. Bug. Bugsy."

Shannon picked up the dog, holding it close like a baby, and she looked surreptitiously at Gibbs. She looked down at the puppy and raised her eyebrows at it.

"He's a big, gooey softy," she confided, in a loud whisper. " _Bugsy_ ," she said pointedly. She glanced back at Gibbs, and he lifted his shoulders, a little abashed.

"They named all the dogs after gangsters," he started, but when she looked at him a little longer, he gave in, and shrugged. "Couldn't let anyone else take 'er, once I heard the name," he confessed quietly.

"I understand," Shannon said, cuddling the puppy. "I can practice on you, can't I, Bugsy?" she asked, touching her nose to the puppy's snout. She sighed affectionately, and looked at Gibbs fondly. "Softens the blow a little," she sad gently, taking the words right out of his mouth.

He got up and came over to the couch, sitting down next to her. He leaned back, and she leaned back with him, firmly keeping the puppy in hand – it squirmed and nipped at her at first, but she was able to tame her – and Bugsy finally let her tongue hang out, and contently lay lazily in the cradle.

"You know if you're in Baghdad when I have the baby, I get to pick the name," she said primly.

Gibbs laughed under his breath.

"Yeah, Shannon," he said smoothly. "I trust you on that one."

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Well, today I was thinking, if it's a boy, his middle name could be Fielding," she suggested. "I don't know about the first name though…something timeless. What do you think about William? And call him Liam. It's Irish. Like Shannon, and my dad is McKenzie," she trailed off.

She looked at him unsurely, her eyes wide.

He nodded simply.

"Or, we could use your mother's maiden name, if you like that," she began.

"Nah, Shannon," he said quickly. "Use yours, keep it close," he said simply. "Besides, Ma's maiden name was Dancey. 'M not namin' my son _Dancey_."

Shannon snorted.

"If you don't like Liam, I also like James? And I also thought about naming him, Leroy James, and we'd call him James, but then his initials match yours."

Gibbs shrugged, and rubbed her shoulder.

"I like your maiden name," he offered up cautiously – even when Jenny had been pregnant, he'd just thought naming the babies was the woman's thing; he didn't care too much, as long as the kid didn't get saddled with something sissy or ridiculous.

Shannon nodded – she did, too.

"And then, for girls," she began hesitantly. "First – do you have any ideas?"

He shook his head without a word, shrugging lightly.

"They're harder, there's a lot of names I like," she sighed. She rocked the puppy a little – it was dozing off, calmed by the sound of her heartbeat – just like a baby, really.

"See?" Gibbs grunted. "It'd be easier if you knew which one it was."

"Shut-up," she said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly and crinkling her nose. She chewed on her lip a moment. "I like old-fashioned boy names, but I like trendier girl ones. Like Leia."

Gibbs didn't react for a moment, and then his brow furrowed. Shannon gave him a deadpan look.

"Or Zira."

Gibbs looked at her, leaning back.

"The _monkey_ from the _Planet of the Apes_ movie?" he asked. "Or that chick from _Star Wars_?"

"Ha!" she asserted, nudging him with her shoulder. "I knew I could get you to care!" she gloated. She smirked. "Or maybe a nice, traditional German name, like Ursula, or Greta, or Heidi – hey, Heidi is kind of cute," Shannon said. She licked her lips. "I was teasing – but I _do_ like Leia, actually."

Gibbs tilted his head back and forth, and shrugged cautiously. He didn't _hate_ it. He just didn't know how he felt about people thinking his kid was named after some movie character or something. Natalie had such a nice, clean, straightforward name.

"I thought Autumn was kind of pretty, but I'd feel weird naming her Autumn if she's born in spring – "

Gibbs cringed, and shook his head.

"Don't – don't name 'er after a season," he said gruffly. He gave her a look. Shannon pursed her lips curiously, and then realization dawned on her, and she nodded simply. She poked his ankle with her bare toes and gave him a meaningful look.

"Suggest something," she ordered.

He turned and looked at her, his eyes drifting to her abdomen. He'd never given a second thought to names when Jenny had been pregnant – she'd just come back from California and decided the baby's name was Natalie, and that was fine. He'd kind of felt off the hook about that whole thing – and Shannon was putting a lot of pressure on him.

She seemed to sense that, and she laughed, shaking her head.

"Men," she murmured. "No complaints when I name her – _Rapunzel_ , or – or _Mabel_ or something," she joked. She leaned over on him comfortably. "If it's a girl, I want you to pick her middle name," she told him contently.

He swallowed hard, still running his hand up and down her arm lightly. It was the same damn thing Jenny had told him, and considering how last time he'd stuck his daughter with a moniker like _Winter_ , he still felt some pressure this time around. If the baby was born in April, he was half-tempted to tell Shannon his choice was April, not only because it was easy but because – well, it even seemed like an homage to Natalie.

"So," Shannon ventured. "You'll get to come home every eight weeks?"

He nodded.

"State has a policy," he said gruffly. "You got to leave a hazard post every once in a while to keep your mind clear." He snorted. "Wonder if anyone ever suggested that to the Corps."

"That's good," Shannon said earnestly. "It's dangerous, and tense, in those places, and you already went through that – I don't want you triggered," she said worriedly. "How are things in Iraq, these days?"

Gibbs shrugged – he wasn't much of a politico in that department; wasn't aware. The war with Kuwait was over, but Saddam Hussein was in charge, so there was no real stability in the region – at least, not peaceful stability, more of a reign of absolute terror. He figured he had to go guard an embassy there because the U.S. was currently committed to supporting the status quo.

"I'll be okay," he promised her. He shrugged it off casually. "Can't be worse than Kuwait was."

She nodded – he was probably right about that. Despite how vulnerable embassies seemed to be in the eighties, deaths of American personnel at them were still fairly rare. And he wasn't being sent to war, technically just a – a less than harmonious zone.

"When do you leave?" she asked.

"Ten days," he answered gruffly.

She thought about it, calculating roughly eight weeks out, and then another eight weeks out, and then she gave up – there was a slim chance one break might fall near her due date, and maybe if all the stars aligned he'd be here, but she doubted it. At least it wouldn't be a straight, unbroken year without seeing him; at least he'd get to meet the baby before it was…five or so months old.

"You're going to be gone when the baby's born," she said – she wasn't saying it to make him feel but, she just wanted to say it out loud so she could start to accept it.

She told herself she'd be okay though – she was ready, she was old enough for this; he'd had a baby when he was seventeen, if he could do it then, she could do it now. And Jenny, she had done it at sixteen, and alone since then – Shannon firmly told herself she'd be okay, but still, the idea of being mostly alone with a new baby for so long was very intimidating.

He turned his head, and touched his nose to her temple, pressing his lips to the side of her head.

"'M sorry, Shannon," he said sincerely.

Hell, he wanted to be there – he hadn't been there when Natalie was born, not really. He'd been in science class – or maybe it was math – and Jasper Shepard hadn't even called him. It was an absurd thing to remember, that – yeah, he'd been making a paper airplane. He still _had_ that paper airplane, in a box somewhere.

It didn't seem like a great way to start, being somewhere else when his baby was born. It hadn't turned out well with Jenny – he hoped Shannon wasn't too disappointed, or that this wasn't – too much for her. He wasn't so much worried about being in Iraq as he was worried about – leaving her behind. He loved the Marines, but this was also making him – unexpectedly wary; perhaps because he remembered the last time he'd gone off to do his job and left a woman behind with this child – and _that_ had only been a rough total of six months.

He leaned back a little, and she tilted her head up to him. She reached over and took his hand, holding it for a moment. She pulled it towards her, rested it on her abdomen a moment, and then turned and dropped the puppy into his lap, watching it roll over and leap up, sniffing around him. She smiled, and titled her head.

"Why don't you sign Natalie's birthday card this year, before you go?" she asked. "I always feel strange writing ' _Daddy'_ so I just put Gibbs…" she trailed off; he was shaking his head, so she didn't go any further – she always asked, and he was always, now, at a point where he wanted nothing to do with it.

She wondered if he was getting too absorbed in their life, in the new baby, and using to compensate for the past he never wanted to face – but then, she looked at him now, and he was looking at her with a striking amount of fear and apprehension in his eyes, and she realized – she realized what he was thinking.

She leaned over and took his face in her hands, her thumb running along his jawline.

"Jethro," she said firmly, her eyes on his intently. "I'll be here when you get back," she promised, holding his gaze steady.

He was very still, very unreadable, scratching Bugsy's ears and looking back at her critically; then his jaw relaxed a little, and he nodded, turning his head to give some attention to the dog. She watched him let the German Shepherd nip at his knuckles, and she smiled – it had been so long since he mentioned Natalie, or talked about the situation, that she'd feared he was moving into a realm of unhealthy disassociation, but his urge to bring home a puppy because it shared his daughter's affectionate nickname reassured her that at least a small part of him hadn't yet given up.

* * *

Even on quiet days in Baghdad, Gibbs had to be in full military gear – hard helmet, vest, rifle and all – and as winter faded – not that winter was particularly icy – the sun only got more unforgiving, and every moment he baked in it he thought about Kuwait.

Today wasn't just a quiet day, though; it was a _boring_ day. He sat in the courtyard of the compound with one of the Ambassador's main security officers, watching the guy smoke a cigarette.

"So I told my _wife_ ," the agent was saying – his name was Tobias Fornell, and he always said wife like it was a swear word. "I told her – you don't go on _vacation_ in goddamn Baghdad – but is she listenin'? No, woman's got it in her head that I can get her a tour of the goddamn palace Hussein's livin' in," he swore.

Gibbs snorted.

"Why's she want to come here?"

"'Cause she's got to one-up every stuffy broad in her book club, that's why," he said, rolling his eyes. "Snort enough for her to have lived in Helsinki and Cartagena and Vladivostok, no, she's got to be able to tell her girls she saw Saddam Hussein's toilet or some shit."

"She stateside?"

"Yeah, yeah," Fornell said roughly. "When my kid started school, she started staying in the States – doesn't want her educated anywhere else."

Gibbs nodded.

"How old's your kid?" he asked.

"Emily? She's – I don't know," Fornell said blankly.

Gibbs stared at him. He gave a dry, sheepish shrug, and snorted.

"She was born while I was at FLET-C," he growled. "Uh, then I kept gettin' moved – her birthday's in June – ah, she's seven."

Gibbs nodded.

"She your only kid?"

Fornell laughed.

"Yeah, I keep getting myself conveniently deployed whenever Diane wants another one," he drawled, nudging Gibbs sharply. "You got one on the way, don't you? Any day now?"

"Any day," Gibbs muttered in agreement – it was past Shannon's official due date, which had been March twenty-ninth. April first had passed with nothing, so had April second – he supposed no news was good news, but he was starting to wonder if it was bad that nothing had happened yet – or maybe he just hadn't gotten a call.

"First?" Fornell asked. "Don't tell my wife this, but I'm glad I got out of all the hard stuff, bein' stationed elsewhere all the time," he said dryly. "She's the mean one, she takes all the crap." He spread his arms out. "I'm just fun Daddy."

Gibbs looked around the deserted area for a moment, and then he shook his head.

"Not my first," he said gruffly – he felt uncomfortable denying Natalie, even though he never saw her, and he tried to leave it in the past – he couldn't sit here and have a conversation about kids and pretend she didn't exist. "My wife's first," he allowed.

"You been divorced?"

"Never got married," Gibbs corrected.

"Ah," Fornell put out his cigarette, and drew another. He shrugged. "I got two ex-wives," he said. "First one married me for my Air Force uniform, when I was in. Couldn't hack it. Second one cheated on me while I was deployed. Diane seems nice," he said – he said _nice_ the same way he said _wife,_ but Gibbs still got the impression Tobias was satisfied this time. "How old's your other kid?"

Gibbs, unlike Fornell, didn't hesitate.

"Nine. Ten in November," he said.

Natalie's age felt absurd on his tongue. Ten – had it really been _ten_ years?

Fornell looked at him, taken aback, his cigarette frozen between two fingers.

"Thought you were younger than that," he said bluntly.

Gibbs shrugged a little.

"I'm twenty-six," he admitted gruffly.

Fornell gave a long, low whistle, and then laughed, lighting up.

"You fucked up," he snorted, chuckling. "Bet that Marine paycheck went one-hundred percent to payin' for _that_ for a while there."

Gibbs didn't answer – other than right at first, none of his paycheck had ended up going to Jenny – not specifically. He'd stopped sending her money, and he'd put an end to Jasper's involvement with his finances, but there was a very private bank account back in the States where, even after he'd cut off contact with Natalie completely, he still deposited the amount he' been ordered to pay in the original court proceedings.

He didn't know why he did it, he just felt like he might need it someday – or she might.

"Your wife in the states?" Fornell ventured.

"Nah, Germany," Gibbs answered.

He'd seen Shannon three weeks ago – they'd both cautiously hoped she'd have the baby then, but no lucky; he'd gone back, and now it was certain that he'd be gone when it happened. He was just playing the waiting game, day by day.

Fornell got up, dusting off his suit pants.

"I've got to go do this paperwork for these idiot NCIS agents," he said. "Undercover pricks decided to track a lead – some Hamas suspect in the murder of one of their Petty Officers – by hikin' through the Iranian border – I swear to god, no one cares if you're a hiker or a little old lady, you go to Iran illegally, you're gettin' into some shit."

He shook his head and killed the cigarette under his shoe.

"They're lucky the Chief of Mission is former NCIS," he growled, "or he probably wouldn't have gotten them sent back to us so we could chuck 'em to Egypt."

Gibbs snorted, standing up respectfully to see Fornell out – he needed to make a round of the compound, anyway, and he had no desire to sit in on those discussion again – Iraq had plenty of its own radical problems without lesser-loved federal agencies luring Iran and Hamas into the mix.

Gibbs fell in behind Fornell, just as one of his MSGs ran up, his cover crooked on his head. He straightened it, stood at attention, and gave Gibbs a formal, disciplined salute.

"Speak, Grant," Gibbs ordered simply.

"Sir," the younger Marine said. "Command has Frankfurt on the phone. Your wife tried calling you at home. Sir, I was told to tell you they have her on standby, if you can take a call."

Gibbs kept his emotions in check.

"You and Jacobs patrol the perimeter, check in with everyone," he said. "I'll take that call," he agreed.

Fornell slapped him on the back as he went, grinning.

"I'll scrounge up a cigar for you, Gunny," he said smugly. "Good luck!"

Taking Gibbs place, Grant fell in with Fornell, and Gibbs marched in a way that was both quick and dignified into the building, taking the familiar path to the secure command communication center. He wasn't sure what to expect – Shannon said she'd call, but he didn't know if she would call when it was starting, or when it was over – and of course he tried to quell any fears that something hadn't gone right –

"Mornin', Gunny," one of the operators said as he walked in. He pulled a headset from his neck and thrust it at Gibbs. "We're gonna let you have about fifteen minutes to yourself," he said. He walked past Gibbs, giving a signal to another IT guy and starting out.

"Think its good news, Gibbs," the other guy said, holding his thumbs up in congratulations, both of them exiting the room.

Gibbs slipped the headset on and leaned over the rudimentary console – it was just a fancy way to talk on the phone, really, and often it was scratchy and unreliable – but it was secure, and he was grateful they were letting him use it, since he wouldn't get to go back to his sparse quarters until the Iraqi work day was over.

He hit the blinking button, unfamiliar with the system. The machine crackled, and he heard some sounds.

"Embassy Baghdad," he said gruffly, warily – he wasn't exactly sure it was Shannon personally who had called.

"Gibbs, is that you?" he heard.

Her voice was fuzzy at first, but then it seemed to settle.

"Jethro?" she went on.

"'M here, Shannon," he assured her, always glad to hear her voice. "Everything good?"

"Can't you hear?" she asked eagerly. "Oh – well, no, she's stopped, she was crying so loudly while we were trying to get you on the line – she's oaky now," Shannon trailed off, and he heard extremely loud shuffling. "I'm sorry – I'm adjusting; they just brought her back to me," she said breathlessly.

He smiled, sitting down slowly, pressing the headset close to his ear.

"You had the baby?" he asked, moving on quickly – obviously, she had. "It's a girl?"

"It's a girl," Shannon confirmed happily, her voice shaking – shaking in a good way, he could tell; she sounded delighted and exhausted and content all at once. "It wasn't too bad, it was only six hours," she told him earnestly.

Gibbs looked at his watch – Germany was one hour behind Baghdad; it was April fourth.

"Is she healthy?" he asked.

"Yes she's – she's _perfect_ ," Shannon said lightly. "She's eight pounds – she's not that long, though, she's a little chubby," she said, laughing softly. "Her eyes are blue. She's _so_ small, Jethro, it's terrifying."

"I know," he said hoarsely – he remembered; he remembered the first time he'd held Natalie, thinking it was so intimidating that something that little and that helpless needed him to be there all the time. He rubbed his jaw, leaning all his weight on one arm, staring at the console – maybe if he stared hard enough, he'd be able to see them. "Does she have a name yet?"

The call crackled a bit, and then Shannon spoke up.

"Yes, unless you absolutely hate it – I spent – they wanted me to be on bed rest for the past week, since I was overdue, so I watched all these old movies…I want to call her Kelly, after Grace Kelly."

Gibbs nodded to himself.

"Why not Grace?" he asked.

"It's too pious – unless, you like Grace – better?"

"No," he said, thinking about it. "No, Kelly…Kelly is good." It wasn't one he heard very often, but it was also extremely low key and normal. And he was sure any little girl would like to be named after a Princess, and one less troubled than Princess Diana.

Shannon cleared her throat.

"Your turn," she reminded him. "Pick something that goes with it _gracefully,"_ she quipped.

He hesitated- - he almost did pick April; he thought Kelly April sounded nice – but then, he briefly considered Grace, because it would make the Princess theme complete – or even Diana, but then he thought of Agent Fornell bitching about his wife...before he could suggest either, though, he thought of his mother, and then he didn't have to think much at all.

"Ann," he said. He paused. "It's boring, I guess, but – "

"It's your mother's name." she said, matter-of-factly. "Of course we'll make it Ann. Kelly Ann," she tried. "Kelly Ann Gibbs," she continued proudly. "She's awake. Jethro, I'm going to hold the phone to her ear."

He heard shifting again, and faintly, he heard Shannon telling an infant who was on the phone. He tried to envision what she looked like – what they looked like together – but nothing he could construct with his imagination would compare to the real thing. He leaned his head against his knuckles, smiling a little.

"Hi, Kelly," he greeted, letting the name get familiar. _Kelly_. Kelly Ann Gibbs – miles away, in an American hospital in Germany, he had another baby, one who would grow up knowing him, and loving him, and probably running to the door to greet him.

"I know, it's hard to talk to her," Shannon said, back on the phone. "It's – well, you'll meet her, really, in five or so weeks," she said huskily.

"I hope Bug doesn't get jealous," he teased, without thinking. He paused – he paused when he heard her pause, and then she said.

"Are you…you mean the dog?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I meant Bugsy," he said – and he had, but it was a strangely relevant thing to say; he did wonder, for a split second, what Jenny would think about this – how Natalie would feel, if he ever connected with her, and told her she had a little sister – but hell, who knew; maybe Jen was married; maybe Jen had two boys or something.

Somehow, he doubted it; Jenny had been traumatized enough by one baby – but then, he never knew.

"Bugsy knows we still love her," Shannon answered – though it sounded like she had a double meaning to it, and he didn't want to go there; he didn't want to deflate his happiness over Shannon having a healthy baby, or start thinking about – Natalie.

She sighed; he listened to shuffling.

"I miss you," she told him sincerely.

"I miss you," he retorted gruffly. "You have to stay in the hospital long?"

"No, I can go home tomorrow evening," she said softly. "I'm – it will be strange," she admitted quietly, her voice shaky. "I – I want to run something by you," she said. "We can talk about it more in person, but I've been thinking – "

"What?" he asked worriedly.

"When I get comfortable with Kelly, and I get more confidence and she's – a couple months old, you know, able to travel, has more of an immune system - I want to take her to Pennsylvania for a few weeks, to visit my parents," she explained. "To meet your dad."

Gibbs hesitated – that sounded daunting, traveling like that alone with a baby.

"I just – I want to do it before you get back, because I know you don't want to go to Stillwater, and I don't want to leave with Kelly when you've just come back to us, so I thought – that would be a good thing to do."

When he still didn't say anything, she cleared her throat anxiously.

"She has to – my parents have to meet my baby, Jethro, and they don't have passports yet."

"'Course," he said gruffly, nodding – that made sense to him, it just scared him. "I'll go, Shannon, I'll – deal with it, if you don't want to travel alone."

He didn't want to go back to Stillwater, she had that damn right; he really didn't want to sit and talk to his father, not when all he'd get would be the third degree about Jenny and Natalie, and right now all he wanted was to enjoy how his life had turned out, and try to stave off the guilt of feeling so happy when he'd all but abandoned his daughter.

"I don't know – I don't like how my parents treat you, Jethro, and I don't want it to turn into a battle with everyone – just keep it in mind, okay? We can discuss it more when you come for your visit next month."

He nodded, rubbing his jaw.

"I can't wait for you to see her," Shannon said warmly. "She has your nose."

He bowed his head slightly – that seemed to be the dominant trait, didn't it? Natalie had his nose, or so everyone said. He held the headset to his ear, trying to see if he could hear Kelly – but she was so quiet, and Shannon was breathing very slow and light, like she was struggling to stay awake.

"You tired, Shannon?" he asked, smirking.

"Oh, you know," she said, stifling a yawn. "Eh."

"You need to rest," he said huskily. "S'okay – get some sleep, take it easy," he told her. "I'll be thinkin' about you guys, every day," he promised.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured. "Jethro?" she asked. "Try not to beat yourself up," she said softly. "I know you're going to start – feeling that guilt, and just – try not to."

He nodded, silently promising her he'd do his best.

"I love you," She said.

"I love you, too," he said gruffly.

He waited until he heard a click, and then he took off the headset, and leaned back, tilting his head up. He had a few more minutes to himself before the command gremlins would want their lair back, and he took them, reveling for a moment in the relief that everything was oaky, that Shannon was healthy – that Kelly, that his new baby, was healthy.

He felt sharp twinges of guilt; he felt some conflict – but mostly, he still felt that dull acceptance – here, now, there was nothing he could do about Natalie. He was worlds away from her, her mother had all but denied contact and he – he was resigned to it, even if every once in a while now he got the urge to call, or to lash out and do something rash – the older Natalie god, the older her got, the more he thought there was a chance he'd miss a crucial moment, and truly never see her again.

Sometimes, though, he thought his refusal to act because on a personal level, he knew himself, and he knew there was bound to be a lot of him in Natalie, and he knew that she'd come looking, and he – had resolved himself to waiting for that, because he'd be ready; he wouldn't be the one on trial then Jenny would.

He couldn't wait to get back to Germany and hold Kelly; he couldn't wait to be part of her life, and to try his absolute best to be better, to do everything right this time – as a real father, not a stumbling idiot who'd half-screwed everything up, and at this moment, while he basked in the happiness Shannon brought him, the only bit of conflict he felt was a small, understandable fear of how he'd react emotionally when he had to compare and contrast his two experience with fatherhood – and he wondered if it would start to disrupt the equilibrium he'd developed in his conflict about Natalie since Pendleton back in nineteen-ninety three.

* * *

 _"I got the green light,_  
 _I got a little fight,_  
 _I'm gonna turn this thing around."  
The Killers; Read My Mind_

* * *

 _*Please note that a lot of the military stuff is not realistic/I take extreme liberty with it ... an example being that there's like very little chance anyone would be a Gunnery Sergeant at Gibbs' age...this is fiction, so suspend reality._

 _-alexandra_


	4. Somebody Told Me

_a/n: and now we're on the denouement, aren't we? i really like this chapter. really, really like it._

* * *

Stillwater, Pennsylvania; Positano, Italy; Paris, France: 1994-1996

Somebody Told Me

* * *

Shannon Gibbs found traveling with an infant to be a surprisingly calming way to spend some of her isolated days – not calm in the usual sense of the word; no, it was hectic, and it was a hassle, and for every moment she was having fun and feeling confident, there was a moment she was almost in tears in an airport bathroom begging the baby to stop _crying_ – but it was calming in the sense that it gave her a purpose, and something to focus on, and something to _do_.

If anything, she had to stay calm for her husband's sake, because the prospect of her traveling back to the states so her family could meet the baby had turned him into a completely fussy basket case and when she placed calls to him to check in – when she could – she had to constantly reassure him that she was fine, she had this under control, and Kelly was fine – and _no_ she didn't catch diphtheria from someone on a plane – _diphtheria_ , of all things, _Gibbs_ –

Shannon spent three full weeks at her parents' secluded, old south style manor in Stillwater – well, it was in no-man's land, really, a fortress of wealth outside of most city limits, which was why Shannon had received her choice of local small-town high schools – and then she packed her things and went to stay for a scheduled ten or so days with Gibbs' father, something her mother _vehemently_ protested.

Why, Joanne Fielding demanded, would Shannon go stay in a cozy, small little house when she and the baby could just borrow a car and _visit_ Jackson Gibbs – but Shannon was insistent; Gibbs' father deserved plenty of time with Kelly, and secretly, Shannon's mother was driving her slowly insane. She loved her mother, and as much as she'd wished she had her around several times since the baby had been born, three weeks of her constant presence made Shannon grateful that she wasn't always so – _close_.

"Hello, hello," Shannon called, talking over the bell of the store as she waltzed back in. "We're back," she sang – Jackson Gibbs, quick for his age, immediately caught the door, holding it as she hauled Kelly's carrier through it. She thanked him demurely, and placed the set firmly on the table near the cash register.

"How'd the rounds go?" Jackson asked.

"Well, she's _quite_ popular," Shannon answered primly, reaching down to adjust the soft pink headband on Kelly's head. "I took her by Debbie's, and she got spoiled there, and then my Aunt Melissa was _of course_ as catty as she could possibly be – "

"How so?" asked Jackson with a snort.

"Oh, you know," Shannon sighed breezily. "The backhanded remark that – ah," she broke off; on second thought, there was no need to tell Jackson that her Aunt Melissa had all kinds of choice words for his son. Shannon shrugged. "If anything, Melissa and my mother seem to judge Jenny and Jethro equally, unlike some people in this town," she said shortly.

Jackson nodded amicably, and strolled around behind the counter.

"Sit down, Missy, sit down," he urged. "It's hot out there – I'll get you some lemonade – or sweet tea?"

"Tea," Shannon agreed. "It feels nice out – I think Kelly likes it," she mused, unbuckling the baby's restraints. "I'm just glad she was born in early spring; I wouldn't have dared travel with her like this if it was going to be winter," she said, raising her voice as Jackson disappeared towards the back.

"Mighty glad this all worked out," Jackson said gruffly, coming back with a tray containing a pitcher and two tall glasses. He set the things down on the table, and Shannon pulled out a chair, snuggling Kelly securely into the crook of one arm as she watched him pour.

He slid a glass towards her, and held his hands out hesitantly.

"You trust me to take her? Give you a break?" he asked wryly.

Shannon laughed, and gingerly handed the baby over, leaning back and letting her shoulders relax. She nodded, watching him settle the baby in his arms in the most comfortable way for him.

"I think you've had plenty of practice," she said, reaching for her tea.

"'M sure you tell yourself that about Leroy, too," he said dryly. "At least you don't have to raise a baby _and_ teach a husband how to – my wife, Ann, ooh, she used to give me a hard time – ' _Jackson, he's not a toy – JACKSON don't leave him near the chickens_ \- !'" Jackson smiled fondly, and Shannon grinned. "Maybe I let the chickens peck Leroy one too many times," Jackson added, a little gruffly.

"Oh, I'm sure it built character," Shannon said with a wink. She sighed. "From what I've seen, Gibbs _is_ really good with the baby. I slept perfectly for days while he was home."

"Ah, so he has seen her? 'M not sure I've been understandin' your situation," Jackson said.

Shannon nodded.

"He's been home once, since she was born; he was home at the very end of May, for two weeks," she said. "He gets booted out of Baghdad every eight weeks, to clear his head, so he got to meet Kelly."

"And you're just livin' it up in Germany – you likin' it there, makin' friends?" Jackson asked, concerned.

"It's lovely, our housing is lovely," Shannon said. "Our neighbor, his kids are grown, but his wife loves Kelly; she's a doll. And there's a set of twins down the street who like to come play with Bugsy – "

"Bugsy's the dog?"

"The dog," Shannon agreed, laughing.

"How's the dog with the new baby?"

"Oh, she's wonderful – she's like a nanny," Shannon said warmly. "She lays next to her carrier, or guards the crib – it's so cute, I had taken to calling her Big Sister, but – ah, Jethro didn't like that," she admitted, trailing off slightly.

She'd gotten used to it when she was home – _'Where's your sister?'_ she'd say to the dog – but Gibbs had reacted poorly to it, though she guessed she didn't blame him. She sighed a little, and shrugged, as if to say – _what can you do?_ She wondered how Jackson felt, being here with Kelly when he never saw Natalie – at least, she didn't think he did, and she hesitated to ask too much unless it sounded like she was probing or spying.

She watched Jackson admire Kelly for a moment, and she leaned forward, admiring her as well – she was almost four months old now, and she was a very good baby – she didn't keep Shannon as sleepless as she'd thought she'd be, and she'd only really cried so much during traveling because she kept getting woken up.

"You didn't have to come stay, you know," Jackson said gruffly. "I'd have been happy if you just brought her to see me –"

"Nonsense," Shannon said easily, waving her hand. "You deserve more than a day with her, too – and really, god bless my mother, but she did all kinds of things to Kelly's diaper bag, she made all this recommendations, started all these schedules – and now that I'm here I'm free to _completely_ ignore them."

Shannon flashed a wry grin – her mother seemed to think she was having a harder time adjusting to motherhood than she really was; as it were, it felt like a natural step to Shannon, and she was enjoying the new part of her life – after all, she'd wanted it.

"She's a pretty little thing," Jackson complimented. He glanced up, and back down. "Think she has more of your look. Funny, the other one always looked just like Leroy, spittin' image – well, of him and Ann, but they always looked alike, too," he trailed off.

"It's oaky to say Natalie," Shannon said wryly. "We use her name at home," she said. She nodded at Kelly. "It's not something I intend to keep from Kelly, and Jethro knows that."

"Does he?" Jackson asked dryly – a little tensely.

Shannon nodded thoughtfully.

"He doesn't _deny_ her," she said gently, catching her father-in-law's eye. "He just – took the things Jenny said to heart one too many times."

Jackson made a harrumphing noise and looked at the baby, patting her stomach gently.

"Your old man's stubborn as a mule," he growled lightly.

"He is," Shannon agreed fondly. "But we love him anyway," she sang.

Jackson looked up at her, leaning back easily. He shifted his hands gingerly, and laid baby Kelly against his shoulder, rubbing her back. Shannon watched her turn her head this way and that, taking in the new view. She seemed content – she hadn't started hungry crying yet, and that was a relief – Shannon didn't mind letting Jackson hold her until his arms fell off.

"What's next for the two of you – hey, you been working? I know you're usually teachin' school, wherever he goes."

She shook her head.

"Well, I looked in to positions as English teachers in German Kindergartens, but I decided to just not work for a while, instead of having to deal with Maternity leave when I had her, and we don't have that many expenses, just the house in Alexandria," she gave a small shrug. "I think I'll go back to work when we're somewhere more stable – Jethro's next posting, likely."

"And that's...?"

"Well," She began, her eyes lighting up, "nothing is set in stone yet – but the good thing is, he managed to work out a deal where if he leaves Baghdad in September and commits to temporary duty stabilizing diplomatic missions in Serbia, he gets to come back earlier, and they let him put in for posts already – apparently no one wants to go to that mess – " Jackson snorted, understandably. "—so he requested Rome, Paris, and Madrid for his top three."

Jackson smirked.

" _Leroy_ requested three places that don't speak English for his top three?'

" _Leroy_ ," Shannon said, imitating Jackson's tone, "put down what I told him to."

"Ah."

" _Ah_ is right," Shannon said primly. "He'll get confirmation sometime when he's in Belgrade – it means a more extended period away, because he won't get the eight week breaks, but when he gets back, before we PCS to the next post, he's taking all his accumulated leave and we're going to Italy."

It was what Shannon was most excited about – Italy, for almost a _month,_ and then a week in Greece before they went to wherever they were going next – she was sorry Kelly was going to be too little to ever remember it, but she was immensely looking forward to having all that downtime to just spend with Gibbs and let him bond with Kelly.

Kelly started to fuss slightly, and Shannon was quick to swoop forward and taker her, standing to stretch a bit and walk around, kissing the baby's forehead. She turned, leaning against the cash register counter.

"He calls whenever he can," she said. "I know he misses us – but half the time, it's like he's calling to make sure someone answers, to make sure someone's there," she said. She tilted her head, her lips pursing. "There's a lot of – scar tissue – to Jethro, and I think underneath it he's constantly terrified I'm going to run off, like she did."

Jackson sighed heavily.

"It's been years," he said tightly. "My son, he holds on to things, he can't just – he can't let it go – "

"Well I don't think he should let it go," Shannon said quickly. "He – you know, he really cared for Natalie, and I can see that sometimes, when I see him with Kelly, and that breaks my heart. But he's never clear on how the conversation goes, when he – when he used to – try and work things with – Jenny."

She didn't know why she was broaching this subject, except…since Kelly had been born, she was thinking about it differently. It did break her heart, that he felt so – guilty, or upset, about losing Natalie – but sometimes it scared her, just a small bit – sometimes she worried part of his heart might be closed to Kelly. The logical part of her knew it was nonsense – but still – it wasn't as if she was going to spill this story to – some random neighbor in Frankfurt.

"He quit payin' her," Jackson said warily. "Don't know _what_ he expected – he's lucky she didn't sue – what?" he paused at the look on Shannon's face.

"I," she began, her brow furrowed. "It's – well, in a way he – she told him he didn't have to."

Jackson looked a bit perturbed, and grunted.

"Hmpf. Argh – well, I just heard from Jasper that the money stopped – Shepard didn't seem too pissed, but after she got pregnant, he all but washed his hands of that girl – think he's gotten over it since, though; heard he went out to California, in May."

Shannon listened, and then hesitated – she finally decided to speak.

"That's the thing," she said softly. "You all – we all – have different opinions on what happened, and different sides of the story, and then, in the middle of it, there's this little girl who – well, _God_ knows what she thinks," Shannon mused.

Jackson gave Shannon and intent look.

"Does Jennifer _know_ about _you_?" he asked bluntly.

The way he said it made Shannon smile; he asked as if it were some deep, sinister secret – the clandestine wife, the other woman. She was prevented from answering, though; the shop door swung open and – damned if Chief Jasper Shepard didn't barrel through.

Jackson stood up stiffly, as Shannon moved demurely out of the way, turning her back and walking through the store with the baby – she wasn't even sure Jasper Shepard knew her, or had known her; she was never in trouble, and she'd only gone to Stillwater High for one year – and she knew Gibbs kept no contact with his ex-girlfriend's father.

"What can I get for you, Jasper?" Jackson asked.

"Coupla cigars," the man in questioned answered. "You got any of that deer jerky? I got to stakeout these punks again later," he griped.

She wandered back to the table to lay Kelly down in her carrier for a moment, resting her arms. She sat down and reached for the diaper bag, sensing it might be time to feed Kelly soon – she had some stuff ready to go, just so she didn't run the risk of making Jackson uncomfortable. While Jackson was ringing up, Jasper turned and looked at Shannon. He did a sort of wary double take, and then looked at the baby. She smiled briefly, and kept to herself. Kelly blinked her eyes and waved her hands at Shannon; Shannon smiled proudly and took her little fingers, making them dance. Over to her right, Chief Shepard cleared his throat.

"You're that Fielding girl," he said coolly.

Shannon tucked hair behind her ear.

"Yes, I was," she said politely. "I've changed my name, since," she said, slightly hesitant.

Jackson handed the cigars and jerky over to the Chief.

"Yeah, yeah, she's Leroy's wife," Jackson said, cracking the ice. "That's Kelly, my new granddaughter – cute as a button, ain't she? And I think Leroy did it on purpose, this time."

Jasper Shepard gave a thin, but kind smile. He strolled over and peered at the baby.

"I know your mama, girl – boy, I bet she had a _fit_ ," he muttered to Shannon. "Marryin' the town scandal?" he snorted.

Shannon smiled. She ran her hand lightly over Kelly's stomach, and shrugged.

"He's a good man."

Jasper gave her a sharp look, and then chewed the inside of his jaw for a moment. He sighed, muttered something under his breath, and nodded as if he agreed. He straightened, and turned back to Jackson.

"You tell my daughter about this?" he asked gruffly.

Jackson held up his hands. Jasper snorted.

"It's not a secret," Shannon spoke up, somewhat edgily. "They just don't have – "

"Contact," Jasper finished. "I know. She told me. Gets impossibly hostile if you bring 'im up," he said grimly. "Leroy, I mean." He looked between Jackson and Shannon – somehow, Shannon could tell Jasper likely wished he didn't know; he clearly didn't involve himself in Jenny's affairs much. "I quit tryin' to find anything out about those two," he said curtly. "She nearly ripped my head off when I saw her for graduation."

He gave Shannon a polite nod, gave a small – absurd – little wave to Kelly, and then gave a more masculine nod to Jackson.

"Graduation?" Shannon piped up, before he could leave.

On his way out, tucking his bag of goods under his arm, Jasper nodded.

"I reckon I don't mind you tellin' him," he said dryly, as if he suspected her of fishing. "My daughter graduated college in May. California State University," he said. There was an unmistakable sense of pride in his voice, a sense that lingered even after he left, and the bell rang softly into silence.

For a moment after he left, Jackson said nothing; then he sighed heavily, crossed his arms, and gave Shannon a raised-eyebrow, knowing look.

"Small towns, eh?" he remarked. "Don't you miss it?" He snorted. "And he ain't' even in here very often – figures, he'd show up today."

Shannon shrugged, amused. She wondered if he would tell Jenny about them, or if he really wasn't as in touch with her as Jackson claimed – she didn't know how else Gibbs' ex would know about her, because she hadn't started signing _Kelly_ on the Christmas cards yet, and she didn't know if she was going to – and other than her handwriting, _Gibbs_ was the only name she put on there, anyway.

Shannon bit her lip for a moment, and then turned, her eyes bright. She hesitated, then shrugged, and held out her palms.

"How's Natalie, Jackson?" she asked, throwing caution to the wind. "I have to – you don't have to tell me anything, and I don't know what kind of contact you have but – Jethro thinks he's okay, but I know sometimes he just wants to hear that she's – okay. So if you can at least just tell me – so I can tell him – how _is_ Natalie?"

Jackson sighed heavily – but to Shannon's surprise, and relief, he smiled. He strode forward, and took a seat, resting his hand on the table. He looked at Kelly for a long moment, and then looked over at Shannon.

"She's real good," he said sincerely. "She's – well, she'll be ten, in November," he said. "She's very smart, she went to a science camp at some fancy California school – Stanford, or somethin'," he added proudly. He nodded firmly. "Yeah, she's doin' real good. Her mama's done a damn good job."

Shannon rested her hand on Kelly's foot, tickling it lightly.

"So you talk to her – a lot?"

"Enough," he allowed. "Her – not Jenny. Jenny's not – Jenny's – well, that girl was always very guarded," he said simply. "But she lets her call. Mostly holidays, when I talk to 'er."

Shannon nodded. She looked at her own daughter, and smiled a little sadly – it was always going to be such an unfortunate turn of events, but she thought Gibbs would like to know that Natalie was doing well – that Jenny had at least been extremely serious about doing what she did for Natalie's sake.

Jackson hesitated heavily, and then cleared his throat.

"He – does Leroy have any…contact?"

Shannon chewed her lip a moment.

"No," she said softly. "I send holiday cards. But he – well, when he last saw her, it was – nineteen ninety-two, I think, and he and Jenny had a fight. But there's a lot she doesn't – he just had a really hard time after his deployment, and she doesn't know that. And she doesn't understand," Shannon mused. She looked at Kelly thoughtfully. "I don't know if I can blame her. I think her reasoning comes from a very well-intentioned place, protecting her daughter."

Shannon thought that way, sometimes. She thought about Natalie showing up in the future, in Gibbs' life – she'd always expected that to happen, and been open to it, before – and she wondered how she'd feel; if she'd feel like Natalie shouldn't get close to Kelly, in case Kelly got hurt, or if she'd feel over-protective and unreasonable about Gibbs splitting his time or getting distracted – she didn't know.

Jackson leaned forward.

"Look," he started. He paused. He seemed to struggle, and Shannon looked at him patiently, wondering if he was going to continue. "A while back, I don't know how long," he broke off, then seemed to steel himself, and he _really_ continued. "It must've been a couple of months ago, 'm not sure – Natalie called me," he said slowly, "she called, and she asked me about her father."

Shannon straightened a little taken aback.

"She - ?"

Jackson nodded, meeting her eye.

"She asked – almost exactly – if I knew 'why her mom and dad broke up' and if I knew if her dad did something bad – and let me tell you, it came out of nowhere; that little girl _never_ mentions Leroy, _never_ has."

Shannon pursed her lips.

"But what did you – "

"I told her she needed to ask her mother," Jackson said flatly. "That sure as hell wasn't my place, underminin' Jenny – and hell, I didn't know if he had done something since they both got outta here, I don't know a damn thing," Jackson sounded a little defensive. He took a deep breath. "But Jasper, he told me he got the same kind of call – told Natalie the same thing."

Shannon waited, and she spread her hands out, in disbelief.

"And…?"

"And," Jackson said with a shrug. "Strangest thing – _that's it_." He shrugged again. "Didn't even get a panicky call from her mother, trying to figure out anything – nothing; nada. Natalie never mentioned it again. Jenny never mentioned it either. It was like it never happened. I wonder, sometimes," his voice faded off, and Shannon sighed.

She reached for Kelly, suddenly wanting to hold her, and she gave Jackson a look through her lashes.

"You – you didn't even tell her father never did a bad thing to her?" she asked, a little disappointed – she didn't think that, at the very least, would be uncalled for.

Jackson gave her a stiff look.

"Not my place, I didn't want to interfere at all," he said tensely. "'Sides – how the hell do I know? Last time I asked about Natalie, Leroy hung up on me. He hasn't spoken to me since."

Shannon nodded a bit sadly. She remembered that day – she'd been there; she'd been talking to Jackson first, when Gibbs hung up the call unexpectedly and, from that point on, just refused to speak to his father. It was another thing that frustrated her, made her sad, but she let it go – she was sitting here, thinking maybe she should fight harder.

She held Kelly up and kissed her on the nose, thinking about Gibbs; thinking about the last time a woman had sat in this store with a baby girl, sat talking with Jackson – it must have been so different; it seemed like such a failed trial run, and she almost felt guilty for having Gibbs now, when he was in his element, and when it had all turned out so perfectly for her.

"He's a good daddy," she murmured, almost exclusively to Kelly. She snuggled the baby against her shoulder.

Jackson looked at her for a long time.

"He was," he said suddenly, abruptly. "He was, and I always made sure he never knew I thought that, 'cause I didn't want him to get lazy, or smug." Jackson shook his head, his face haggard. "Hell, maybe if I'd listened to his mother more, been more supportive, he wouldn't have run off like he did – that's what set Jenny off, you know."

Shannon shrugged, tilting her head. She looked at Jackson neutrally, and licked her lips.

"No, I don't think it was your fault," she said simply. "I think even Jethro is afraid to admit, sometimes, that they were just too young for what he thought was going to happen – and now it's all a point of pride," she sighed, "and somewhere, still, there's Natalie."

Jackson smiled at her – he admired this new wife of Leroy's; he did – and more than anything he appreciated her efforts, and her insistence that he get to meet his new granddaughter. She gave him a lot of hope – and he wanted to make her feel welcome here.

Shannon smiled back at him, and then lifted Kelly, cradling her and bending down to kiss her small brow again - -the baby yawned, and Shannon smiled – she quietly decided not to ask about Natalie again, or bring her up anymore during this visit – she wanted this visit with Jackson to be about her daughter, her Kelly, and maybe when she got home – when she and Gibbs got some much needed rest and relaxation in Italy – she could see if anything about having Kelly was making the issue bother him again.

* * *

There was a world of difference between the sand of the Iraqi desert and the sand of the Italian beaches – and this little secluded town in Italy was an infinitely better place to be than the trenches of Belgrade. Despite the horrors he'd witness in Kuwait, Gibbs privately thought the complete wreck of the Balkans following the recent gruesome issues rivaled his experience at war—and in Serbia, he'd only been helping to stabilize.

To say the least, he was more than glad to have a month or so off – mad ten times better by the fact that he got to spend it all, uninterrupted, with Shannon and Kelly.

Today was no different than any – they spent most afternoons on the beach, down by the waterfront; Kelly often took her nap on the beach, if she wasn't rolling around on a blanket watched carefully by Bugsy, or being fawned over by her father. The lack of English spoken around them added to the peaceful seclusion of the vacation, and Gibbs, basking in the more forgiving Mediterranean sun and the bliss of being with them, was content to stay for a while.

Shannon rolled onto her stomach and picked up her camera, rising up a little.

"I should send a picture of them to Mom," she said, nodding at Bugsy and Kelly – they'd brought the dog with them, naturally, instead of finding somewhere to kennel her for over a month.

Gibbs snorted in amusement.

"She'd have a heart attack," Shannon mused – Bugsy looked over at her and wagged her tail lazily, her tongue lolling out – Kelly sat between her paws, concentrating extremely seriously on the shiny pink tag dangling from Bugsy's collar.

"Wait 'til she starts licking her again, then get a picture," Gibbs said wickedly.

"Then Mom would have a heart attack _and_ a stroke," Shannon said solemnly. She clicked her tongue. " _'Shannon_ ,'" she mimicked, affection a tone of horror. " _'You allow that – that – animal – to – interact with the baby?'"_ Shannon laughed, remembering her mother's distress. "Bugsy's the only reason I got any sleep when you were gone."

Bugsy often slept in Kelly's nursery, and when she'd been a newborn and Gibbs was still in Baghdad, the dog being in there had made Shannon feel altogether safer about really letting herself fall asleep.

"Bugsy," Shannon called, wrinkling her nose. "Bugsy, are you taking care of Kelly?" she asked.

The dog thumped her tail and perked her ears, giving a pleased little whine. Kelly tilted her head up, eyes wide, and shrieked at her. Bugsy thumped her tail vigorously and scooted forward, licking Kelly's forehead. Kelly tipped backwards.

Gibbs was quick to put his hand behind her gently, keeping her from toppling over unsteadily, and she laughed, turning at the touch and giving him a huge smile. He smiled back, running his hand over her back protectively and leaning over to kiss the crown of her head.

"Still getting used to sitting up," Shannon said.

Gibbs nodded proudly, and he grinned.

"I'm not gonna miss a second," he gloated. Shannon smiled, reaching out to rub his thigh affectionately – he was more than relieved they were about to be stationed at a single embassy for two to three years – no moving, no war zones, no high level threats – just the ability to do his job as a Marine, come home, and be around for Kelly.

"It's perfect, you know," Shannon said. "We can raise her bi-lingual; it's so much easier for children to learn languages during primary speech development, and French is useful – "

"Who's she gonna talk to in French?" Gibbs asked blankly.

"Um, ninety-nine percent of the population of _France_. The country we are going to be _living_ in," Shannon retorted.

Gibbs had ultimately been assigned to Paris – detachment commander, in charge of the Marine Security and general security manager. Upon their return from vacation, they had a week to move to Paris and take up residence near the embassy – Shannon had visited their housing while Gibbs was in Belgrade; it was to die for.

"Yeah, but we don't speak French," Gibbs said.

"I certainly plan on learning it," Shannon said, arching a brow. "Don't you?"

"Everyone speaks English anyway," he whined.

She rolled her eyes and nudged him with her elbow, shaking her head – he'd never get away with refusing to learn a lick, and no doubt he'd inevitably end up picking up at least a little.

"Well," Shannon said primly. "Kelly is going to learn French – I'm going to find a good Montessori program for her, once we're all settled and she's about two – I think by that time I'll be settled in, maybe with a job – I need to see about certifications," she went on, "I think I could get a job in a early level school teaching English – or if nothing turns out, a position at the embassy."

"You'll get a preference, as a military spouse," Gibbs muttered.

She nodded, and sat up. She pulled her hair back into a messy bun and lazily slung her arms over her knees, chewing her lip lightly.

"What do you think about me going to school for my Master's?" she ventured.

Leaning back, most of his attention on Kelly, Gibbs shrugged. He genuinely didn't care – Shannon had always been her own person, and he couldn't imagine a world in which she'd need his permission for anything – or one in which he'd even think about telling her what to do. Especially since she so stoically accepted whatever the Marines threw at them, even if it meant her parents had only seen their granddaughter once.

"Then I can quit the Marines and mooch off you," he drawled.

She laughed.

"You love the Marines," she reminded him. She shook her head, and held out her hands. "I think I want to get an advanced degree in school psychology – counseling – and then I can take more formalized French, too," she explained. "You'd have to watch Kelly at night, though – if I'm working, you know."

Gibbs turned his head.

"Have to?" he repeated, tilting his head. "What _else_ would I be doin' at night?" he retorted.

He figured other guys might come home, start drinking beer, start watching the game or something – but he spent so much time separated from his family – and in the past, he'd spent so much time having no contact with family – that he couldn't imagine doing anything but coming home and playing with Kelly until bed time.

Shannon smiled at him, her eyes soft.

"I wanted to talk to you because – I was wondering if you were planning on going to college," she ventured.

He laughed outright.

"No," he scoffed. "I got out of that bull," he said, a little smugly. " _Twice_."

First he'd had the excuse of Natalie and Jen – then he'd joined the Marines, and he sure as hell didn't think more classrooms and stuffy teachers were going to teach him anything more valuable than the Corps had.

Shannon raised her eyes up, and then glanced at Kelly.

"Well, then – your G.I. bill – I could use it? To avoid loans?"

Gibbs looked at Kelly, too.

"You want to keep it for her?" he asked hesitantly. "I'll have about ten years of service in a coupla years; I can keep it for her."

Shannon compressed her lips.

"I'm glad you're thinking about Kelly's college – "

"'Course I want Kelly to go to college!" Gibbs interrupted loudly. "I hope Natalie goes to college – that's where girls belong!"

Shannon arched her brows – first, at surprise that he'd mentioned Natalie, unbidden, and then just – general amusement at what he'd said. She laughed, stretching her legs out, and ran her palms over her knees, tilting her head at him curiously as she watched him check on Kelly again – the baby was still contently patting Bugsy, and playing with her collar.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shannon asked, delighted. " _Girls_ belong in college? Do you know you're probably one of the only men born in the sixties who thinks that?" she teased.

Gibbs look at her defiantly.

"The world isn't _nice_ to girls," he growled pointedly. "They _got_ to be able to hold their own."

Shannon shook her head.

"How did you _get_ like this?" she murmured – how could he be this guy, this outrageously masculine guy, pride of the Marine Corps, gun-slinging, stereotypical American male – and yet sound like he spent his free time osmotically memorizing Gloria Steinem speeches.

He shook his head a little. Abruptly, he reached out and took Kelly, putting her in his lap, and letting her lay back against his chest. She tilted her head up and reached for his jaw, grasping his skin lightly and cooing at him, and still he looked stern, thoughtful.

"My Ma," he said slowly, as if he was reasoning it out, "couldn't go anywhere. She couldn't do anything but get married. She couldn't leave my Dad, or call 'im out, because she couldn't make a livin' any other way than bein' married to him – Jen," he said, struggling with the name, "Jen never did _anything_ I didn't do, too, and people wore her down until they," he paused, his jaw tensing a little angrily, "until she wasn't _Jen_ anymore. She got this—you said it, Shannon," he said earnestly, "She didn't have any friends anymore."

He shrugged.

"Joan," he began, thinking of Matteson – of the whole impetus for him deciding to guard embassies, in honor of her, her sacrifice, all the things she'd wanted. "Joan enlisted 'cause her whole family enlisted, and her Dad wanted boys, and he got her. She _died_ , tryin' to prove herself."

Shannon bit her lip.

"That's a very sinister way to look at it," she said softly – though not unconvinced.

He shrugged a little, running his fingers lightly over Kelly's soft, thin baby curls. He took her hand, tickling her palm affectionately, thinking about her future – thinking about Natalie, wherever she was, whatever she was doing.

"I don't want anyone to treat my girls like my old man treated Ma," he said darkly. He lifted Kelly up, helping her to stand on his lap, and put his lips close to her ear. "You need to be scary," he growled seriously.

She squealed and squirmed away from his whisper, and he swept her up into a cradle, smiling, but nodding firmly.

"Scary," he repeated, knitting his brow in a mock scary face. "Threatening," he told her.

She reached up and grabbed his nose.

" _Da_!" she shrieked.

"Daddy," Shannon agreed brightly – whenever Kelly vocalized, Shannon was quick to match the sound to a word that seemed close, in an effort to develop her speech. "Da-dee," she pronounced. She smiled a moment, and then drew her legs back up. "I think we have plenty of time to budget, to plan, for Kelly's college," she said levelly. "I don't like the idea of taking a loan out from foreign authorities, so I thought to best to use your GI bill for my tuition – a Master's in Europe will be cheaper, anyway," she added. She winked. "Socialist democracy!"

Gibbs rolled his eyes, shrugging her off – half the time, he didn't know what she was talking about, when she got political; he never had when Jenny had done that either, half because he didn't care, half because the only thing he voted on was who was going to be the strongest military leader.

"You can have it," he said simply, shrugging. "I like smart women," he added wryly, shooting her a suggestive look.

"I know," she said softly – he quite clearly had a type, not that she knew Jenny well enough to compare herself to the other woman; however, aside from the hair being similar, both she and Jenny had aspired to seize the world – and both had done so, at different costs. Shannon just – perhaps out of a different background, or a less rebellious, angry nature, hadn't felt like she couldn't have an adventure and a family.

But – then again, Jenny's narrative had been characterized by exclusion, ridicule, fear of failing, a child before she was readt –

Shannon cleared her throat, and hesitantly looked at her husband through her lashes.

"Jethro?"

"Hmm?" he grunted.

"I don't think you have to worry about Natalie," she ventured.

He made a derisive, stubborn sort of noise in the back of his throat.

"No," he muttered. "Jen'll get her through college if it kills her," he said dryly – that, he believed.

"She went to college," Shannon said bravely. She swallowed, and pushed on – she hadn't been too forthcoming about her visit, specifically, to Jackson, because she knew Gibbs resisted all talk of his father.

Gibbs gave her a wary look, cutting his eyes narrowly at her. He grunted quietly. Shannon sighed.

"I heard – her father told your father – Jenny, she got a degree. At some school, in California."

Gibbs bristled slightly – for some reason, he didn't like that Shannon knew this, and _he_ didn't; he didn't like that he felt a spark of interest in his ex's life, when for so long he'd moved on from it, and absorbed himself in this life, in _this_ family that actively wanted him, and loved him with purpose and without caveats.

Shannon started to continue, but Gibbs shrugged.

"Good for her," he muttered tensely. "'S'what she wanted," he grumbled. He wasn't sure why Shannon was bringing it up, except maybe she thought it would ease the resentment a little – she had left him because she insisted she couldn't get what she needed if she was married at eighteen and following Gibbs around – and yet –

"You ought to tell her you're about to get a Master's off my GI bill, and you're livin' in Paris," he said, a nasty edge lingering in his tone. "Tell 'er that, in one of your cards," he griped.

Shannon frowned a little.

"You know, our relationship only works because I willingly committed to it; I wanted it," she said.

He looked up sharply.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"I _mean_ ," she stressed pointedly, "the military lifestyle is _hard_ , Jethro, you know that – we _all_ know that – and I _signed_ up for it – you've told me a hundred times she never wanted you to go."

"She had her head in the clouds, Shannon," he growled sourly. "If I hadn't joined the Marines, we'd both still be in Stillwater, probably with Natalie locked in a tower so she didn't go get herself knocked up, too," he muttered.

He looked down at his daughter, and then looked up again sharply.

"Why'd you bring this up, to defend her? You about to plead her case again?" he asked sharply. "I told you – she's made 'er bed, Shannon, she can sleep in it as miserably as she wants."

Shannon arched her eyebrows.

"Poetic," she said dryly. She leaned forward, shrugging, and went to tickle Kelly's little feet. Bugsy nudged over and licked Gibbs' knee, whining for attention. She hesitated again. "Natalie is apparently very smart," she said quietly. "Jackson said – she went to a camp, at Stanford – "

"Berkeley," Gibbs grunted unexpectedly. He swallowed hard. "It was Berkeley. That's where she was in that picture Jen gave me, last time I saw 'er. The name is on the lab coat."

"Well, either way, that's very impressive," Shannon complimented in a small voice.

Gibbs didn't know how to take the praise – he didn't know anything about it; he hadn't seen Natalie since she was four or five years old; he hadn't spoken to her since she was six. He wasn't sure he'd recognize her if she stumbled into his path, and all of this stuff, this drama – it was just too exhausting for him to think about anymore.

He lifted Kelly up, and met her blue eyes – blue like Natalie's; blue like his – except Kelly's were also blue like Shannon's. It was so important to him that Kelly know him, love him, and always have faith in his presence. He silently swore he was always going to be there, no matter what, but the thing was – it was an easy promise to make, because he had complete trust in Shannon to never leave him –

-and that was because she was right; they had both chosen this, as adults, who were ready; they were making a life on their own terms, and not terms that had chaotically, immaturely, and unexpectedly been demanded of them, and maybe with each passing year, Gibbs gained a little more perspective – the old intense anger and flickers of hatred that flared when he thought of Jenny had faded over time, and though he still resented her, still harbored a dull ache of pain over losing Natalie, and though he still struggled with guilt, he was able to see clearly how young and confused everything had been back then.

It didn't mean he forgave her for taking the easy way, for cutting him out, for making things so hard on him – but it did mean, that just _maybe_ , he didn't want to crucify her for breaking it off with him. He didn't want to crucify her for leaving, maybe but he still - he still didn't think she had handled it the right way. There was no reason - no reason for him to feel so alienated from Natalie, to feel like Jenny genuinely didn't want him around - no reason for Jenny to have put it all on him, and then blamed him when he couldn't keep up - when Jenny herself didn't even try - God, when he'd found out Jenny kept Jackson's number and let Natalie call him, even encouraged it, but never did the same for Jethro himself - that's why he'd hung up on Jackson that one time; that's why he never called him back.

He just didn't understand. He didn't understand what he'd done that made Jenny want to phase him out of Natalie's life in addition to her own.

He stood up, holding Kelly on his hip.

"I'm takin' her in the ocean," he said gruffly, thinking of the last time he'd seen Natalie. He clicked his tongue at the dog, and Bugsy leapt up, following them with a joyful, excited bark. Shannon leaned back, turning to watch them.

She hoped she hadn't unsettled him too much; she'd just wanted him to know that Natalie was doing okay – and she wasn't sure if she wanted to tell him what Jackson had said, about Natalie asking about him – she was afraid it might send him into some sort of spiral of guilt or darkness, and to a certain extent she did think he'd done all he could, and that now, with their lives so completely separate, and separated by an oceans, there was nothing to do but wait to see what happened when Natalie was old enough to strike out on her own.

Gibbs held Kelly securely away from the water, only wading in up to his knees – Bugsy gnashed her teeth at the waves, her tail wagging madly, splashing through the water without a care in the world. Kelly kept pointing at her and giggling, waving her fingers.

"Yeah, yeah," Gibbs drawled, with a dramatic sigh, "I know Bug's your favorite; that's okay, Kelly, I'll survive," he lamented.

She put her hand on his chest, over his heart, and pointed at the water.

"Da!" she screamed. "Oh. AH!"

Not the most extensive vocabulary, but Gibbs could manage – after all, she was only half a year old, and all of his parental experience was with the infant through toddler age. He had plenty of confidence in his skills right now, but he wondered what the future would be like – he wondered how he'd feel when Kelly was four, or six – or even nine – because he hadn't been around when Natalie was those ages, and he didn't really know what kids were like, then.

It was easy to lock Natalie away in the back of his mind, while he was so far away – he could easily tell himself there was nothing he could do while he was in Europe, while his dinner time was when she was in school, and his early morning was when she went to bed.

He felt sorry, sometimes, for feeling content, for feeling happy with Shannon, and Kelly, and what he had right now, because it had come at the expense of losing Natalie, or his loneliness being so assuaged that he didn't feel so driven to repair what Jenny was careful about keeping broken – but sorry as he felt, and guilty as he sometimes felt, he had Kelly, and he had Shannon, and it was hard to dwell on the past, or take pleasure in the fact that he was living the life he'd promised Jenny he could give her, because he didn't want his life now to be about vindication or proving something to a girl who hadn't wanted it anyway.

* * *

Kelly was at a very odd age on her first Christmas; she wasn't walking or talking yet, but she was closer to a year old than she was to infancy – and Gibbs wasn't entirely sure she understood what holidays were or how fun Christmas was – but he enjoyed it, and he knew Shannon was reveling in it, too. He'd been in Baghdad last Christmas, and all kinds of hectic training before that – and well, this Christmas was just another indicator of how well things were going, for the time being.

They'd been safely settled in their Parisian housing for a few months, and it finally, just in time for the holiday season, felt like home. As it had been in Germany, State Department housing was outstanding, and the simple but elegant little town house with a small porch and a small yard was the perfect size for a young family with a big, excitable dog. Their neighbors to the right were a French couple, with a son about Kelly's age and an older daughter in first grade, and their neighbors to the left were other State Department employees, so they had a nice mix.

Shannon got along well with the Chevaliers, and often watched their two children, Adele and Luc.

"I think Kelly jingling stopped being cute half an hour ago," Shannon said dryly, looking up from her spot in the kitchen – she was working on a letter to her parents, updating them, and finishing up some Christmas cards.

Gibbs, watching a Christmas movie with an annoyed expression on his face – it was in French – had been on Kelly-observing duty for the past hour, and he'd just started ignoring her persistent rattling of a festive Christmas rattle.

"Kelly never stops being cute," he retorted seriously.

He could almost hear Shannon roll her eyes. He turned up the volume on the TV.

"Drowning her out?" he asked.

"It's just more cacophony!" Shannon hissed, amused.

Gibbs snorted, and turned the TV back down.

"Why can't they dub this stuff?" he asked.

"It _is_ dubbed, Jethro, it's dubbed in _French_ ," Shannon told him.

"Subtitles?" he grumbled.

"As if you really need English to tell you what's going on in Rudolph."

He shrugged to himself, and turned over on the couch.

"Kelly," he called, waving for her attention. "Give the rattle a rest, huh?" he suggested.

She threw it at him. Bugsy immediately got up and dashed after it, taking it in his mouth, giving a muffled bark of delight, and trotting right back to Kelly to return her toy. Gibbs glared mildly at the German Shepherd.

"You ever seen _The Omen_ , Shan?" he asked loudly.

"Mm-hmm."

"'Cause sometimes, Bugsy and Kelly remind me of that kid and that big demon Rottweiler."

"Jethro," Shannon said, trying not to laugh. "Don't compare our daughter to the spawn of Satan on Christmas."

Gibbs slid off the couch and crawled towards Kelly, smiling at her when she pointed at him and shrieked. She shook her rattle again, and he crawled over her, gently laying her down on her back and pretending to search her skull for triple digits.

"Hmm," he muttered, while she grabbed at his hand, giggling. "I think she's good – she _is_ an American born in Europe, though. Glad we're not in Rome." he growled. "You sure they gave you the right one, at the hospital?"

"All I have to do is take one look at that baby when she's mad and know immediately that she's yours," Shannon retorted smartly.

"Da," screamed Kelly conversationally. "Da, buh," she said, tilting her head. She turned over and crawled away from him, unsteadily going for Bugsy. Bugsy lowered himself playfully, wagging his tail and blocking her advance.

"Don't get her too riled up, Jethro; it's almost bedtime," Shannon warned.

Gibbs rolled over onto his back and let Kelly crawl over him, unperturbed by her tiny knees in his ribs. He let Bugsy sniff him, too, ignoring her rough tongue – this was his favorite kind of evening, and he relished it for everything it was worth – just the ability to be able to play with his baby daughter, without being exhausted from two jobs, or having to do homework, or having to worry about her mother getting home before a nine-thirty curfew.

"You excited for Christmas, Kel? Hmm? Santa? _Pere Noel_?" he drawled.

"I don't think that's actually French for Santa Claus," Shannon informed him.

"Pipe down," growled Gibbs playfully. "I'll show you father Christmas later, Mrs. Claus."

"Gross," Shannon snorted.

Gibbs grinned at Kelly, and gave her a wink.

"Deep down, she loves me," he confided, raising his voice pointedly. He heard Shannon laugh in the kitchen, and he leaned up to kiss Kelly's cheek. "Got sugarplums in that head yet?" he asked solemnly.

Kelly put her hand over his face and smushed his nose, crinkling her brow cutely. He pretended to be overpowered, letting his head fall back. She tapped on him, and then squealed, poking at his cheeks. She squealed again, insistently.

"Jethro, stop doing whatever you're doing to her," Shannon warned. "I don't like it when she does that squeal. It's her scared squeal."

Gibbs let his eyes fly open, letting Kelly know he was okay. She opened her mouth wide, startled, and then burst into laughter, rolling over and tumbling off his chest onto the floor. He twisted his head and watched her crawl – she was so good at crawling now, and once or twice, she'd even pulled herself up and held shakily on to something.

"I'm right here," he said to Kelly. He smiled at her. "'M not goin' anywhere, hmm? Promise."

He shifted, and hauled himself up easily, swinging Kelly into the cradle of his arms deftly. He carried her into the kitchen.

"You want me to do bedtime?" he asked, opening the refrigerator.

"Hmm?" Shannon muttered. "Oh – no, there's no milk ready, I need to feed her," she said, gesturing to herself.

Gibbs shut the fridge and gave Kelly a solemn look.

"You see them more than I do, you know," he told her seriously.

Shannon threw her head back and groaned.

"You're so full of _shit_ , Jethro," she said, trying not to laugh – and failing. "God, don't – shut-up, you're so annoying," she said, still laughing.

Gibbs smiled smugly, wandering over towards her. He shot a look at whatever she was writing – she always wrote more diligent letters to her parents around the holidays, and he knew they were in for holiday pictures this time, too. They'd had a family photo taken at Shannon's insistence – and Gibbs had obediently managed to look half-way _not_ miserable in it – but there had been a delay in developing, so they were going out late.

That, and Gibbs had been sent on temporary duty to Marseilles, and since he was going to be there for two weeks, he'd brought Shannon and Kelly with them, and they'd enjoyed the change of scenery and the different side of France.

"We have plenty of sex – we have more sex than most new parents – "

"Shannon," he barked, "stop being vulgar in front of the baby!"

She turned and looked at him, her eyes shining mischievously.

"Why are you being so silly?" she asked fondly. She scrunched her face up, blew a kiss to Kelly, and then nodded her head at the living room. "Finish Rudolph with her, then I'll put her to bed," she said. "Maybe she can teach you some French. _Oui_ , Kelly-belle? _Oui_?"

Kelly pointed at Shannon.

"Ma," she said, very seriously.

Shannon nodded proudly.

"Mama," she agreed.

Gibbs started to walk by, intending to give Shannon a quick kiss before he went back to the couch, but he paused when he saw the things she had out, his eyes scanning vaguely – he knew she was behind on her Christmas cards – he counted three envelopes, and three family photos – Jackson Gibbs, Joanne and Mackenzie Fielding, and –

He stuck his hand out and stiffly plucked the envelope with _Jennifer Shepard_ and _Natalie Gibbs_ scrawled on it. He looked again at the photos.

"Shannon," he said shortly, balancing Kelly on his hip. "You're not sendin' this photo to them," he said – and he wasn't sure himself if it was a question, or an order.

She leaned back, and hesitated a moment, looking up at him guardedly.

"I was planning on it," she said neutrally. "It's a nice photo, and they always get a card – "

"Sendin' cards is one thing, Shannon, sending – this is like a damn birth announcement or something," he growled.

She blinked at him calmly, and shrugged.

"I decided there's not so much wrong with that," she said simply. She paused a moment, and then folded her arms. "We don't intend to keep Natalie a secret from Kelly – I think it's fair that we give Jenny and Natalie the same respect."

"I didn't see you sendin' her a wedding invitation," he retorted sharply. "You send this, and Natalie gets curious, Jen'll – she's likely to go ballistic – "

Shannon looked slightly defiant.

"Maybe it's time someone extended a hand, Jethro," she said. "I thought – it did occur to me that seeing that could bring up some questions, and if you sign the card, and put your phone number, like you used to – "

"I thought I told you I was _done_ with this?" he interrupted harshly.

Shannon compressed her lips tightly. She didn't like his tone, but she wasn't exactly unprepared for this kind of push back. He was, understandable, paranoid about ticking Jenny off, especially since Jenny seemed to think he was such a threat to Natalie. Shannon took a deep breath, remaining calm – Kelly stared at Gibbs, fussing very softly. She poked at his chest. Gibbs didn't react to it.

"Natalie is – she's, let's see, eighty-four – she's ten, Jethro," Shannon said.

"I know how old – "

"Ten," Shannon said, speaking over him. "That's still young, that's pre-teenage, that's – it's before convictions, or hard-to-break ideas have set in – and _Kelly's_ young, and I think it might be better if we opened a line of communication while Kelly is young, too, so she's not confused – "

"What the hell does she have to be confused about? If Natalie shows up one day, Natalie shows up – s'like you said, we're not hiding her –"

"But it's still going to be weird, and possibly traumatic for Kelly," snapped Shannon, "You don't know how you're going to feel – and what if Kelly feels neglected, or like you're distracted now that your first, real daughter – "

"You told me you weren't threatened by them," Gibbs snarled. "You told me years ago, you didn't – "

"I'm _not_ threatened by Jennifer Shepard," Shannon confirmed tensely. "Whatever residual feelings you have for that woman will never pose a threat to me because your wounded pride over what she did would hold you back even if she walked through the door and begged you – "

"You think I still have feelings for her?" he shouted.

He didn't realize he'd gotten so loud, and Kelly made her distressed squeal. Shannon turned in her chair and reached for the baby, soothing her softly. She shot Gibbs a narrow look.

"Well," she said crisply, "neither of you ever pretended your relationship ended because you fell out of love, and she had your _baby_ – "

"That doesn't – "

"It means a lot more than you think – you know it does!" Shannon interrupted. "I had your baby, too, I know what kind of connection that is, I know what it feels like – and I don't think even what happened between the two of you erases that first love, not after what you went through."

He felt cornered and he – he was seething, suddenly; the idea that he could even – bear the tiniest bit of – even slight emotional attachment to Jen, buried under everything else he'd felt about her, and everything else she caused –

"Look, Jethro, I trust you, and I love you, and I believe your heart belongs to me, but I feel like something needs to be done – you backed off, you took your time off, you laid dormant exactly like she asked, but I just wonder – "

"I had to _quit_ wondering, Shannon, _Jesus_!" he snapped. "I'm tellin' you again – I'm not fighting that battle anymore, I'm not gonna throw myself at Jen like it was my fault!"

"You don't have to _throw yourself_ at Jenny – I want Natalie to know that _you_ – that _we_ – are okay with her contacting _us,_ maybe a little nudge to know that it isn't _you_ who has forgone contact – "

Gibbs stared at her, and as he did, she flushed. It was – it was sneaky, and she knew it, and he recognized it, too, and it was out of character for her. She admitted to herself that she had struggled with the idea of, even subtly, undermining another mother, but lately, watching Jethro be a father to Kelly, she'd just had this little ache in her heart about the whole Natalie fiasco.

"What the hell's gotten into you?" he demanded. "We got a good thing going," he said roughly.

"I'm not trying to ruin anything we have," she pleaded. She shifted again and took Kelly from him – the baby was getting understandably fidgety and wary. "I – "

"Were you gonna tell me about this, or were you hopin' one of them would ambush me – Natalie, asking for Daddy, or Jen, ripping me a new one for it?" he went on aggressively.

She grit her teeth.

"It's a gesture, Jethro, I wasn't writing a letter, I didn't make calls, I just – I feel like you're in this detached zone about it, and I know – I can just tell that you want to know how that little girl is, how could you not – "

"What'm I supposed to do, Shannon, let it eat me alive?" he barked. "'Course I want to know how she is! She's my kid! But I - I had to move on – I have a family right here that _wants_ me around, and I don't need you bringin' Jen into that -

"This is not about Jen, it's about Natalie!"

"Why the hell do you think you can have one without the other?" Gibbs snapped. "You'd _never_ let Kelly go to some strange woman's house, you'd never keep your nose out of someone you didn't know involved in your child's life – you sure as hell shouldn't think Jenny would, and I wouldn't ask her to!"

Shannon grit her teeth.

"You're overreacting," she snarled. "Sending a Christmas card to your daughter is not overstepping, it's not inappropriate – and I am thinking of you, I am trying to do what I can to be supportive – Jethro, I see you with Kelly, I see how good you are to her, what an amazing father you are, and I see every day how much you love her, and it breaks my heart – because now, from a whole different perspective, I know how hard it must have be for you to miss Natalie, and not see her, and I want you to know I would always welcome her, but I have to consider protecting my child now, too, and if Natalie shows up in ten years, troubled or something – "

Gibbs held his hand up.

"You got this idea goin' that you're the savior, you're gonna fix the whole goddamn mess," he swore. "You saved me, Shannon, you fixed me, you got me through – but this is not your place, you can't – this is Jen's mess, and she's gonna fix it. She's gonna face it."

Kelly put her hands up, reaching for Gibbs. She squealed twice, her face crumpling, and Shannon stood up.

"You're scaring the baby," she snapped.

"You started this fight!" he shouted.

"Not out of spite, Jethro, not out of an intent to hurt you – I just don't ever want to feel resented, or like I was an excuse, or part of the reason you gave up – "

"I didn't give up, Jen gave up – "

"Oh, at some point, you both gave up, just admit it!" Shannon shouted, her brow darkening. "You gave up after Desert Storm because it was easier, you gave up after Hawaii, she gave up because she was nineteen and stupid – you both gave up!"

Shannon stood there, her face red, and before Gibbs could take stock of what she'd said, Kelly's face crumpled, she curled her hands into fists near her eyes, and started sobbing, her body shaking – she genuinely did look scared.

Hiding her face, Shannon whirled away and left the kitchen.

"I'm done with the damn Christmas cards," Shannon said harshly, her voice tensely controlled. She shoved a chair violently as she left for the stairs. "It's up to you to keep sending them."

He started forward, heard Kelly's volume rise, and decided against it, stepping back. He wouldn't do any good by following her when they were this tense – and he wasn't sure how to handle it, anyway; he and Shannon never really had huge fights, and they'd never had a fight like this about – Natalie. It felt – scary to him, fighting over Natalie – over another woman, essentially, another woman's child.

Gibbs leaned against the back of a chair stiffly, looking down at the assortment of Christmas cards – he felt tempted to rip up the one for Jen – he felt like this was her fault, even though he was the one who had been so negative – but why would Shannon do that, stir things up? Things had – settled, they had a rhythm—

She had to understand that keeping the past in the past was even harder for him during the holidays, that he thought about his mistakes, and the events of his life, more at Christmas, and Easter – the days he always used to reserve for calls to Natalie?

Gibbs looked at the things on the table a moment longer, and then he went into the living room and sat down on the couch, replaying the argument, trying to figure out what he wanted. He didn't want to go through it all again – they were so far past it now, so far removed; he was settled at where he was with the whole thing, but he should understand why Shannon was worried about it all blowing up one day, and of course he should try to see why it would start to make her nervous, that he appeared to just let it go, since they had a baby now, too, and she was worried about how it might affect Kelly.

He wished he hadn't seen the photo, wished it hadn't come up at all – chances were, Natalie would see it, show it to Jenny, ask a question, and then be told not to ask anymore or – or _something_. Without him in her life anymore, Natalie had probably just accepted that she didn't have a dad like everyone else, and moved on.

Gibbs rubbed his jaw, looking down at his hands – he wondered how long he should wait to seek out Shannon and see if she wanted to talk, or make up or – well, he figured he should come up with something to say first; did he owe her an apology? He tended to think he didn't, but Shannon was usually more attuned to when people owed her an apology and Gibbs, er, always tended to think he was right.

He kept thinking about what she said last, about giving up, both of them – he balked at accepting that; he hadn't given up, he hadn't given up on his child – Jenny hadn't, he didn't think so – granted, he didn't know much about Natalie, but he would never think for a second that Jenny was doing as best as she could – he didn't want to be accused of abandoning her, of some sort of relief. Jenny had all the power in the relationship - she could say whatever she wanted to Natalie, paint it however she wanted, and Gibbs, as much as he sometimes hated himself for just backing off like he did, was always worried that he would seem threatening or scary if he pestered Jenny incessantly - if Natalie didn't know him, wouldn't she just seem him as some aggressor who stressed her mother out? Jenny had made it - so twisted, so much more complicated than it should be - Shannon, telling him he gave up - well, maybe he had, but Jenny's overreactions about Natalie were just so - absurd. For God's sake, Jenny had divorced parents - but for some reason she insisted that an absentee father was better than an intermittent one.

He rubbed his face, letting his palms rest over his eyes for a moment tiredly. He knew – he had known for a long time – that he was never really going to be able to move on from this part of his life; a child was a child, and as long as Natalie lived and breathed, he and Jenny were connected, and there was a chance they'd have to face each other again someday – but he so, so badly did not want to face the humiliation, the anxiety, the disappointment that always came with trying to reach out.

He was also genuinely afraid of what it would do to Natalie, if he and Jen couldn't get along, if she felt pressured, pulled in different directions, hurt – et cetera.

"Jethro?"

Shannon called his name softly, and he looked up. She was standing there, in her pajamas now, her hair pulled back messily. She chewed on her lip as she looked at him, and then she came around and sat beside him gingerly, pushing strands of loose hair behind her ears.

He looked at her a moment, and then looked warily back down at his hands.

"Kelly asleep?"

Shannon nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, she's okay," she said thickly. "A snuggle, and I nursed her, and she's…okay," she said.

Gibbs looked back at her, and noticed her eyes were red. He felt horrible, that she'd been upset enough to cry, but he wanted to – stand his ground, too. She'd said that she chose to be with him – well, that meant she chose the baggage, and at some point, she'd agreed to follow his lead when he had decided that the meeting in Pendleton was the end of it.

She took a shaky breath.

"Jethro," she began. She put her hand to her chest. "Your father told me something when I was in Stillwater, and it's been bothering me," she said hoarsely. "He told me Natalie called him. She called him, and she asked why you and Jenny broke up. She called Jasper Shepard and asked him the same thing."

Gibbs lifted his head heavily, meeting her eyes. He raised his brows just a little, the barest flicker of hope glancing through the lines on his face. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah?" he asked.

His wife nodded.

"They both – they both told her she needed to take it up with her mother, because – well, I'm sure they didn't want to get in the middle, or they don't – know what happened," she went on softly, "but – she _called_ , Jethro. She _asked_."

Gibbs nodded. He swallowed hard – and it did make him feel something, because he wondered what had provoked it, what had spurred her. Jenny had always said she'd let Natalie ask and she'd let Natalie reach out, but he wondered if Jenny had even tried – not that Jenny would know where he was, because the only clue she ever probably had was whatever return address Shannon put on the cards. He himself – didn't even know where she lived now, if she was still with her mother; if she was still in California at all.

He'd threatened her; he'd told her he'd hold doors wide open for Natalie, he'd never deny her, but now he wondered if he was a coward. Shannon had once said he was afraid of rejection – maybe he was. He couldn't stand the thought of Natalie not liking him, or of having her back briefly just for something to – not work out.

He lifted his shoulders, and sighed heavily.

"I don't want you thinkin' bad of me, Shannon," he said huskily, hesitating thickly, "but I can't," he shook his head. "She threw a fit over me tryin' from Quantico. We're in Europe. It's an easy out for her, and I can't take it again. I can't."

He shook his head again, closing his eyes tightly.

"'M sorry I yelled at you," he muttered. "'M sorry I scared Kelly."

"I scared her, too," Shannon said fairly. "I – I was going behind your back. It was shady, it – it would have ambushed you," she admitted. She reached out for him, and put her arm around his shoulders. "I know how much you love Natalie, Jethro," she said sincerely. "I'm – I'm just trying to take care of you; trying to be a somewhat – outside perspective."

He nodded; he appreciated that, and he did need it – but he wasn't ready to make an changes, take any steps – he was still adamant that it come from Jenny, from Natalie; he didn't know if that would ever happen, but sometimes it felt like it didn't matter. He'd already missed so much; Natalie would probably never want to be anything to him, except the little girl he never saw grow up.

"I love you," Shannon murmured, pressing her lips to his cheek. "Let's just go to bed, hmm?" she asked, squeezing his shoulders.

He nodded, touching her hand gently; silently indicating he'd be up in a minute. She kissed his cheek again, got up, and turned the television off, quietly tiptoeing up the stairs. He closed his eyes in relief – glad that they wouldn't be going to bed angry; glad that things were going to be okay. Fighting made him nervous; any rumbles of unhappiness made him wary – all because he seemed to have missed the signs, way back then, in Stillwater.

He sat on the couch for a long time, thinking, and then he got up, dragging his feet as he went to turn off all the lights. He hesitated in the kitchen, looking intently at the Christmas card mess still strewn over the table. He looked around, as if he was being watched, and then he sat down, looking at the pictures of himself, Shannon, Kelly, and – Bugsy. Bugsy, the dog; Bugsy, the canine big sister – Bugsy, a cheap imitation of Natalie – no matter how beloved, the German Shepard was not his _Bug_.

Gibbs put the photo aside, and pulled the card intended for Jenny and Natalie towards him. He looked at it thoughtfully, a little painfully, and then he picked up a pen. He hesitated, and then he very slowly, and very simply, wrote ' _Merry Christmas. Daddy.'_

He hesitated. He knew Shannon usually signed the cards 'Gibbs' or 'Jethro.' He almost marked it out, and instead, he left it. He just left it. He sealed the letter – leaving the photo out, he wasn't ready for that – he sealed it, and he wondered if wherever she was, Jenny would notice the change of handwriting, and think anything of it.

* * *

On an early autumn afternoon, Gibbs left one of the younger Marines in charge and headed out to meet his family for some downtime and some sightseeing – though he wasn't exactly sure if he'd call it downtime, since his in-laws were visiting, and despite his extremely limited contact with them – he'd met them in-person once, while he and Shannon were at Quantico – he distinctly felt that they, especially Joanne Fielding, judged him completely only whatever reputation he had in Stillwater – and didn't like him.

They had arrived for a much-anticipated – by Shannon – visit about two days ago, but as they were staying in a hotel for their two weeks in Paris, and as Gibbs had been assisting the Paris based NCIS agents with an investigation, he hadn't seen them yet.

Just because he felt it made him look more formidable and respectable, he didn't bother to change into civilian attire as he made his way to the grassy knolls outside the Eiffel tower; he kept his Marine Corps uniform on. He knew Shannon liked him in it, anyway, and Kelly would probably recognize him easier.

Turns out, he was right about that last part – when he arrived in the general location where he was supposed to be, and spotted his wife on a picnic blanket with her parents, he saw Shannon tap Kelly's shoulder and point, an exaggerated happy expression on her face. Kelly turned and pointed at him, pleased.

He grinned at her – she'd been walking for the whole summer, since just after her first birthday, and she was even getting real good at running – which was why he always gave her the chance to practice. He stopped and crouched down a little, motion towards himself with her hands. He glanced up, saw Shannon nod, and Kelly was allowed to dart towards him, two modest pigtails flying behind her.

"Da Da," she said primly, when he picked her up and held her easily on one arm, touching her nose playfully with his index finger. She immediately reached for his cover. "Hat," she said.

"Huh-uh," he said gently, holding it on his head. "Daddy has to keep his cover on. It's the rules," he said solemnly, carrying her slowly over to the rest of the company. "Here," he said, untucking his dog tags from his collar and letting her hold them. " _Shiny_."

She clicked them together and blew a kiss at him, laying her head on his shoulder. Holding the tags in one hand, she pointed at the looming pride of Paris, her tiny fingers wiggling with excitement.

"Big," she said. "Da Da, so big. SO BIG!"

" _So_ big," he agreed. He stopped at the edge of the white and red checkered blanket, nodding at the Eiffel tower. "Did Mommy take you to the top?"

Shannon reached up for Kelly, and Gibbs handed her down.

"No," drawled Shannon smugly. "We waited for you, Daddy," she answered wryly.

Gibbs shot her a disgruntled look – he'd said he had no interest in climbing the Eiffel tower – or taking the elevator, he was fine with them doing it without him.

"Jethro," Shannon's father said – Mackenzie Fielding stood up and extended his hand, gripping Gibbs' elbow as they gave each other a firm, greeting handshake.

Gibbs nodded at him, and tipped his hat politely to Joanne, sitting down with them easily – he inclined his head civilly.

"You guys have a good flight? Hotel suit you?" he asked.

"It's extremely satisfactory," Joanne said, ever ready with the formalities. "I'm impressed with your suggestion – how did you know of it?" she asked, almost as if she were suspicious of his connections.

He consider joking that the Mob told him, but Shannon would probably kick him – she told him constantly that her mother really didn't appreciate sly jokes.

"Asked around, when you decided to come," he said gruffly. "One of the political officers recommended it."

Mack nodded.

"It's very nice, yeah," he agreed. "Good location, easy to get to the attractions – Shannon tells me you'll be fine with missing the Louvre? We saw it this morning."

Gibbs turned a grateful eye to his wife, and she smirked, rolling her eyes.

"The only art Jethro recognizes is the art of woodwork," Shannon snorted. "Though, he's very talented," she added, smiling and leaning over to kiss him. "How was work?"

He shrugged, muttering a little – NCIS agents had been prowling around his office all day, commandeering Gibbs' systems and connections to search for some suspected Hamas terrorist, driving him crazy – he was good friends with the lead NCIS agent from the Paris office, but damn, if the man couldn't be annoying as hell.

"Leon wants us to come for dinner," he remarked, thinking of the agent.

"Oh, as an apology for keeping you so late last week?" Shannon asked, amused. "I'll call Jackie, then – but we should have them over, and we should offer to watch Kayla – I bet they're dying to get out."

"Kelly hates Kayla," Gibbs said seriously.

"She'll live."

"Who is Kayla?" Joanne asked with interest, her eyes sharp.

"One of the federal agents Gibbs liaises with sometimes, he and his wife have a daughter about Kelly's age - they're couple friends," Shannon said easily.

"But Kelly doesn't like this child?" Joanne asked.

Shannon laughed.

"They're toddlers, they don't feel anything for longer than ten seconds – Jethro just says that because – oh, it' s a running joke, don't worry about it, Mom," Shannon sighed.

Joanne looked affronted, and Gibbs held out his hands when Kelly got up from Shannon's lap and strolled over to him, stepping around his legs and standing close to his shoulder. She rested her chin on him, and reached for his dog tags.

"Da Da," she said shyly. "Where Buggy?"

"Hey, where is Bugsy?" Shannon asked. "I thought you were bringing her?"

Gibbs patted Kelly's head.

"I left Bugsy at home, honey," he said. "Thought she might get restless, if we decided to go to eat or something," he explained. He caught Shannon's eye. "I didn't drop by the house," he said - -but intuitively, he knew Joanne didn't like the dog much, and she confirmed that quickly.

"For the best, I would think," she sniffed. "I still can't believe you let Kelly roll around with that animal, Shannon – she could get fleas, or – "

"Well, it's a really good thing I don't let my dog get dirty enough for fleas," Shannon interrupted, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She arched her brow at her mother. "I've been considering commissioning a saddle for Bugsy and teaching Kelly how to ride her."

Her mother looked scandalized, but Mackenzie laughed, heartily amused by the jest. He nodded at his granddaughter.

"She's a feisty little thing; I reckon she'd do it," he complimented.

Kelly looked at him, entranced by his laughter, and then giggled shrilly. She walked over to him and sat next to him, putting her hand on his jeans.

"Big," she said conversationally, pointing up at the Eiffel tower. "So big."

"She has a one track mind," snorted Shannon. "But, before we venture up, I thought we'd make a plan – ah, Mom wants to make a plan," she said, shooting Jethro a covert but apologetic look – but he didn't mind if his mother-in-law wanted to call the shots; he was here to be accommodating and unobtrusive, and prove to her he was absolutely a worthy man for her daughter.

Not that her opinion mattered at all now; counting the years they'd just been friends and friends alone, he'd been tied to Shannon for eight long years – as long as, or maybe longer, than he'd even known Jen – Jen, he'd met when she was twelve or so, when she'd moved to Stillwater; Jen he'd started dating when she was fourteen and he was fifteen.

"Plans save lives," Gibbs said seriously. "Miss the days when I left the planning to the officers," he added a little wryly – not that he was an officer in the conventional sense, but he was, at this point, a mid-level non-commissioned officer, and he had plenty of paperwork and overseeing to do.

Kelly came back over to Gibbs and touched his face.

"Da Da," she whispered. "Hold."

He picked her up, but he raised his eyebrows at her – he was sitting, how did she want to be held? She touched his shoulders, and he ducked his head a little, lifting her, and placing her easily on them. She planted her hands firmly on his cover, flattening it a little, and giggled, kicking him lightly as she looked around.

He didn't flinch.

"Shannon, if you want to go out to some nice place for dinner, spend some time with your parents alone, I can take Kelly home when she's tired," he said simply, grabbing her foot and pretending to eat it.

"DA DA!" she screamed, in melodramatic protest. He tickled her knee and then squeezed her foot affectionately, eyeing his in laws for their reaction.

"We don't need her alone," Mack said, his brow furrowed. "Hell, wouldn't want you to miss out on a nice dinner – leave you home alone with the kid?" he snorted, sharing a wry look with his wife. "Now, in my day, that was a man's worst nightmare," he joked.

Gibbs gave him an intent look.

"Jethro always watches Kelly while I'm at school," Shannon said – she'd started taking classes this summer, working towards a masters at the American University in Paris. Despite being quite good at French, her knowledge was still basic and she wanted to take her classes in English.

She laughed.

"Dad, you think I'd let my husband get away with making me do all the work? Tsk, tsk," she clicked her tongue, knowing full well that's exactly what her own mother had done. "Besides, sometimes I think Gibbs is better at it than me – all that practice," she said, looking at them – her cheeks flushing with just a little bit of pride.

Maybe it was Marine training, maybe it was just general experience with already having had a small child – she wasn't sure, but Gibbs was just a force to be reckoned with when it came to parenting – nothing fazed him, nothing bothered him, he didn't snap or get irritable at Kelly – though sometimes she chalked it up to him trying to make up for Natalie, by being twice the father to Kelly.

Joanne Fielding gave a small, sniffing noise, and then she nodded, her eyes on her little granddaughter.

"I must say, you're good with her," she said, and Gibbs tried not to fall over in shock at the praise. "I didn't know what to think when Shannon and up and married you – and then, having a baby, well, you know, I just wondered if she'd end up by herself, but you've been much different than I –

"Mother," Shannon said sharply.

Gibbs helped Kelly down from his shoulders, adjusting his hat as he swept her into a cradle and bent his head to her playfully, ignoring his mother-in-law – he wasn't surprised; he should have known that compliment was going to be backhanded.

The Fieldings were old money royalty, Shannon had always been honest about that; they'd been from the rural plantation areas of Pennsylvania, and they'd still turned their noses up at the scandal – no doubt kept updated by Melissa Fielding.

Gibbs had no intention of saying anything at all, but he was slightly started that Shannon kept going.

"I don't know what you _think_ you know about Gibbs' older daughter, but I can tell you right now everything that happened had nothing to do with him, he never shirked his responsibilities or deliberately turned his back on that child, and there is no one in this entire world who I would rather be Kelly's father," she said firmly – and a little roughly. "You can keep any further comments on the damned Stillwater Scandal," she noted sarcastically, "to _yourself_."

Joanne looked appropriately mollified, and Gibbs arched his brows at Kelly, not daring to look up at Shannon, afraid he'd smirk too smugly – Shannon was never abrasive with her parents; behind their backs, she rolled her eyes or lightly mocked their old fashioned, stuffy tendencies, but she never pushed back, really – she wasn't a rebel, she'd just left and lived outside their jurisdiction instead.

"I don't think I deserve to be spoken to – "

"Well, you aren't going to come to my home, _my_ – part of the world, and start hurling half-baked insults at my husband – "

Mackenzie cleared his throat, leaning forward.

"I could go for a cup of coffee," he said to Gibbs, his voice dry. "You, ah – you?"

"Lead the way," Gibbs muttered.

He got up, as Mack gestured over towards a line of shops across a couple of streets, and Gibbs silently indicated to Shannon that he was taking Kelly with him. He held her securely in one arm, glad to take the trek with Mack.

"I don't have much tolerance for their bickering," Mack said lightly. "Girls and their mothers – 'm sorry Jo brought all that up, son," he added, a little grudgingly.

Gibbs shrugged, staying silent – he wasn't going to engage on the subject; he rarely engaged with Shannon on it, and she was his closest confidant; she knew everything she could. Since their fight at Christmas – since it had fallen to him to start sending the cards if he wanted to maintain that tiny contact, and he'd decided to do it – it had been an almost absolutely taboo subject.

"Joanne would prefer people think she dislikes them, so they bend over backwards to impress her," Mack continued, reaching over to tickle Kelly's stomach fondly. Kelly giggled, and snuggled up to Gibbs contently. She picked at the Velcro nametag on his uniform; Gibbs was reminded of Natalie doing the same, years and years ago. "I know you're a good man, Jethro, I trust Shannon," Mack said simply.

"Appreciate it," Gibbs said, somewhat stiffly.

He wasn't sure what Mackenzie's angle was, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"You know my sister, Melissa?" Mack asked.

Gibbs grit his teeth – of course he remembered Melissa; the woman Shannon had lived with when she did her senior year at Stillwater High, the self-righteous bible thumper who had refused, even at Jasper Shepard's orders, to hire Jenny in her dress shop, the – the bitch who'd been as ruthless about Jenny as younger, less mature girls like Betsy Carmichael and Maggie Hart. Of course – Gibbs simply nodded, rather than dare remind Mackenzie that his sister was a dried up, mean hag.

"She was always harping on about the whole ordeal, gossiping with Jo, telling Jo that Shannon was romanticizing it, all that," Mack said. "I always just thought Shannon had more of a heart that anyone else, with their noses in everyone's business," he said gruffly. "I wondered what she was doin,' for a while there, when she took up with you, but I can't see why it matters."

Mackenzie got the door of the first coffee place they came to, and held it open, waving Gibbs through. He shrugged, and gave Gibbs an intent look, stepping into the line.

"Shannon's very happy," he said simply. "Guess what I'm tryin' to say is, ignore my wife," he said gruffly. "According to her, Shannon was supposed to marry a doctor, stay at home – not gallivant around the world with a Marine who disrespected some girl in high school – her thoughts, not mine," Mack said shortly.

Gibbs ran his hand over Kelly's back, looking at the other man intently for a moment. He tilted his head, tightening his jaw.

"Not yours?" he provoked – Shannon had always given the impression that both of her parents were less than forgiving about the whole thing.

Mackenzie looked at him a long time.

"People shouldn't be judged by their mistakes," he said seriously. "They should be judged by how they handle them. And if Shannon knows why you stopped being involved in – ah, I forget her name – in that Shepard girl's kid's life, and Shannon accepts it, no one else has a place to stick their nose."

Gibbs wrinkled his brow slightly, and nodded. He turned a little, stepping up in line, deciding he wasn't going to address it anymore – he wasn't, except to say:

"Natalie."

"What's that?" Mack asked, cupping his ear.

"Natalie," Gibbs repeated. "My bastard's name," he said, a little dryly, a little edgily. "Natalie."

Mack nodded, stepping up to the counter. Gibbs turned to Kelly, waiting his turn to order, and he smiled at her.

"Want some coffee?" he asked seriously. "Espresso, no sugar – hmm?" he asked.

Kelly stuck her hand on his mouth.

"Shhh," she said primly.

He pretended to bite her fingers, and she pulled her hand back, in time for him to quickly order just that – an espresso, black – and step to the side, to wait.

"Shannon tells me you two will be in Paris several more years?" Mack asked, taking his coffee when it was read.

Gibbs nodded.

"Assigned until ninety-eight," he answered gruffly. It was the same year he'd be up to re-contract with the Marines, if that's what he decided to do – if not, it would be on to another embassy, hopefully not a hazard post.

Mack whistled.

"Never knew Marines did this," he admitted. "Hell of a set up."

Gibbs nodded.

"We like it," he agreed, taking his coffee, too – Shannon was thriving, still thrilled with the romance of living all over the world, Kelly was content anywhere, Iraq and Kuwait were behind them – it was a good life, and Gibbs was proud of it; Gibbs was happy to live it, happy to come home at night, happy when he woke up.

"She mentioned a trip to Prague, for her birthday?"

Gibbs shrugged.

"We're thinkin' about it," he said. "Thinkin' about Barcelona for our next anniversary," he added – but they wanted to see if the Vances, Leon and Jackie, would be up for watching Kelly for a few days – the single bad thing about having no family, or truly close, ties near was that they rarely had a chance to go on a kid-free vacation.

Gibbs didn't mind much, but Shannon thought it would be nice.

"That's the life," Mack said, clapping him on the back with a grin. "Barely a year old, and my granddaughter's got more culture in 'er than a petri dish."

Gibbs snorted – he'd have to repeat that one to Shannon, she'd die laughing at the joke.

They made their way back towards the Eiffel tower, slowly, with Mack dragging his feet, remarking that the slower they were, the more likely Joanne and Shannon were to be done sniping at each other.

"And they'll probably have planned the whole night for us – you just got to listen to the women, Jethro, listen to the women," he said good-naturedly. He looked at Kelly. "You got that, Princess? You're the ones who are really in charge."

Kelly looked straight at him, blinked thoughtfully, took a deep breath, and said:

"Birdies."

Mack laughed, and Gibbs grinned at her, looking up – he didn't see any; he wasn't sure why she said it, but even at her young age, Kelly could be whimsical – that much was already clear. She had a much different personality than Natalie; she was very vivacious, where Natalie at her age had always been quiet, thoughtful – smart, and warm, but more…reserved; almost as if she understood that everyone was always watching her and talking about her and using everything she did as a unit with which to measure her parents' performance.

"Big," Kelly said, spotting the tower suddenly. "Da Da, so big," she reminded him. "Want big."

"We're goin' up, Kel, we are," he assured her. "Think you can touch a cloud while we're up there."

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

" _Oh_ , what?" Shannon asked. As they approached, she was standing and gathering up their things, and she heard Kelly's sigh of happiness. "Oh no? Oh yes? Oh?" she teased, scrunching her nose at Kelly.

"Oh, big," Kelly sighed.

"Yes indeed, big, big, big," Shannon soothed. She walked up, and promptly kissed Shannon right on the nose, making the little girl squeal. "Daddy's going to hold you so tight, all the way to the top – you ready?"

Kelly babbled a little unintelligibly, and then said:

"Da Da hat."

"Well, maybe you can put his hat on at the tippy-top, where none of his commanding officers would know he took it off outside," Shannon whispered conspiratorially – poor Kelly, her love of hats was legendary, and she was always sad when she couldn't wear Daddy's uniform cover outside.

"The Eiffel Tower, Mack," Joanne said. "Then, if Kelly's still in good spirits, we're going to the Tuileries gardens – but Shannon insists that Jethro is taking Kelly home, that she won't go to dinner with us – "

"Sounds fine, Jo, let 'em be," Mack said.

Shannon leaned into Gibbs and gave him a sly look.

"I got you off the hook – you can order whatever you want at home, just don't feed Kelly chicken nuggets _again_ ," she said smartly – she'd found out recently that, despite being wholeheartedly committed to watching Kelly and doing a good job of it while Shannon was at her master's classes, Gibbs always fed her chicken nuggets when it was his job to provide dinner.

"She likes chicken nuggets," Gibbs said seriously.

Kelly nodded vigorously.

"See?"

Shannon rolled her eyes good naturedly. She rose up on tiptoes a bit, to kiss his jaw, and she lowered her voice.

"I don't know why she said that," she said huskily. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," he said sincerely.

"Yes, but – "

"Shannon," he said edgily. "It's fine."

She nodded, and dropped the subject. He started forward, all of them getting together in a little group.

"Lead the way, Shanny," Mack said, using her old – hated, if Gibbs remembered correctly – childhood nickname.

Shannon stuck her tongue out at him, and took Kelly from Gibbs, pointing in the direction they needed to start to get tickets. She reached out, sticking her hand into the pocket on the back of Gibbs' Marine uniform comfortably, and cleared her throat.

"Here's some gossip," she said dryly. "Your father- - it seems, according to my mother, that he's cozy with Deborah Henry," she revealed.

Gibbs gave her a baleful look.

"Debbie Henry?" he asked dryly. " _That_ Debbie Henry?"

As in – the one who Jenny had worked for; the one who had, probably with relish, essentially broken the news that Jenny was gone?

"Is there any other?" Shannon sighed.

Gibbs shook his head. He raised his eyes.

"Damn small town," he swore under his breath.

Shannon laughed, and moved a little closer to him, turning to answer a question her father was asking her, and Gibbs glanced over to catch Kelly's eye, always happy to see her there, always happier when she looked back and grinned at him, or gave him a little wave – he wondered if back in Stillwater, Deborah Henry was disappointed that Jackson Gibbs didn't have a lick of gossip to tell her about where his son was now.

* * *

Gibbs had spent the majority of the day helping the State Department security professionals acclimate a new Foreign Service national to embassy operations – the national investigator, who served as a sort of liaison between the French and the U.S., and helped secure the area, was a quick learner, but a very quiet – almost unnervingly shy – man.

He got home late, but just in time for storybook, so while Shannon did some studying, he put Kelly to bed.

Laying there in her cramped toddler bed, with her snuggled into his side and looking happily up at the book as he slowly told the story, he felt a little off – not unhappy, no anger just – off. He wasn't sure he liked the foreign national they'd gone with for the job – he'd been pushing for a man who'd been former Mossad, but expatriated to France when his wife divorced him. He also – with summer rolling around, and Kelly's second birthday having passed, he was just feeling strange about it – Kelly was rounding on the same age Natalie had been when Jenny ran off with her.

Which meant, in an odd twist, he was starting to experience a certain level of parental wariness and self-doubt, as he'd never done this part before – and he'd no longer be the one who could easily tell Shannon he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Lune," Kelly cooed, putting her finger on the page. "Night-night, Lune."

"Moon," Gibbs said, nudging her playfully.

" _Luuuuuuune_."

"Mooooon," he growled back.

She buried her head in his shoulder, shaking it. She gave a little squeal.

"Speak French, Daddy," she ordered.

"Nope," he insisted gruffly – the _Goodnight, Moon_ book was in French, but he knew it by heart; he'd read it to Natalie enough that to his surprise, he actually could pick up on the vaguely familiar basic French and remember what the story was all about.

Kelly sat up, her hair messy, sticking up in places. She puckered her lips and sighed, turning a page forcibly.

"Waldo," she said, peering. "Where Waldo?"

"No Waldo," Gibbs said. "Waldo books are too long. Mommy said _one_ book. Then Kelly has to go to sleep."

"No," Kelly said conversationally, as if it were a discussion. "No, no."

"Yes, yes," he corrected.

She shook her head, but settled back down next to him, pointing at the book.

"Read," she ordered.

He went on, dragging it out a bit so she felt like she was getting away with something. She yawned, her hand tangling into the dog tags he'd forgotten to take off – hell, he was still half in his uniform; the bulky part taken off, the tan crew neck still on, untucked from his trousers.

Towards the end of the book, Bugsy trotted into the room and laid down with a canine sigh at the foot of the bed, giving one lazy, happy thump of her tail. Kelly beamed smugly.

"Bugsy," she told Gibbs, as if it were a secret. "I love Bugsy."

"I love Bugsy, too," Gibbs agreed, closing the book. "Night-night, Moon," he said seriously.

"Lune," Kelly trilled. She had three favorite French words – _Lune_ , _Bateau_ , and _Chien_ ; Moon, Boat, and Dog, respectively. Shannon was delighted – her dream of a bilingual child was moving forward; Gibbs was just stubbornly stuck in limbo – he understood a lot of French, so used to hearing was he, but he couldn't speak it to save his life.

Kelly took the book and held it.

"Keep?"

"You can sleep with it," Gibbs said, nodding. He leaned over and took a teddy bear, shaking it at her lightly. "Mopsy might be more comfortable," he suggested seriously – Shannon had named the bear; Gibbs still didn't know why its name was Mopsy, but Kelly couldn't pronounced it.

Kelly took the bear, too.

"Bugsy stay."

"Bugsy sleeps where she wants," Gibbs said.

He sat up slowly, wincing a little – it was hard to cram himself in that small bed, but Kelly always wanted to be read to there, and since that made it easier for her to fall straight to sleep without moving around on the way to bed and waking back up, Shannon and Gibbs put up with it. He gingerly got out of the bed, and crouched beside it.

Kelly rolled over, yawning at him; she smacked her lips and waved a little.

"Night-night?"

" _Real_ bedtime, now, Kelly," he agreed. "Moon's in bed; Kelly's next."

She beamed sleepily, and nodded. He leaned over and pushed her tangled hair back, giving her a swift kiss on the forehead.

"Don't let the bed bugs bite," he said, quite seriously. "Love you, Dolphin," he told her quietly – it was a silly nickname; Shannon had told him that instead of calling Kelly princess, he should be calling her _dauphine_ – and he'd thought she said _dolphin,_ and when Shannon heard him actually call her that, she didn't let him hear the end of it for a month.

She wrinkled her nose, nodded and blew him a kiss.

"Love Daddy."

He grinned, waited a moment, and then got up to leave – Kelly was good about going to sleep on her own, not needing them to wait until her eyes closed – she was especially good when Bugsy stayed with her. Gibbs shared silent look with the dog, and then left Kelly's bedroom door cracked just slightly, so Bugsy could nose out if he wanted to.

He made his way soundlessly back downstairs, deciding he was too lazy to change – he'd just go to bed later, anyway, why bother getting into lazy clothes and then pajamas – and prowling towards the refrigerator, wondering if there was any ice in the ice trays for a glass of bourbon on the rocks.

Shannon came in from the back porch, reading glasses perched on top of her head. She placed them on the small table in the kitchen, and then came forward, resting her cheek on his arm a moment before opening a cupboard for a wine glass.

"Finish your thing?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, relieved. "I'm going to graduate in August."

She should have received her Master's in May, but something hadn't worked out with a final class she'd needed, and she'd been forced to postpone for that single one – it worked out, though; they did end up going to Barcelona for their anniversary, Kelly had done fine with the Vances, and Shannon had actually really needed the break from school – she was working now, too, three days a week as an English teacher at a community center.

Gibbs handed her a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, and gave her a smug look.

"'Course you are," he said proudly.

She smiled gratefully, and poured herself a glass of wine, leaving the cork off the bottle – she'd just planned her entire thesis argument; she could definitely allow herself more than one glass tonight.

""You were late today – how's the new guy?"

Gibbs shrugged.

"Dunno," he said. "Seems okay. The diplomatic security agent in charge, he's hostile about 'im – think he wanted the Israeli guy, too."

"But why would you hire an Israeli as the French foreign national investigator?"

"He's been a French citizen for a year. Mossad connections," Gibbs said frankly. "He was a decent guy, too, Vance put his name in – Eli David," Gibbs muttered. He shrugged again. "Politics," he muttered. He didn't know why David had been passed over, or why the sharp girl from the Sorbonne, the one with the doctorate in criminal justice – Jeanne, or something – had been turned away.

"But the one they went with seems competent?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said slowly. "He's a soviet defector."

"Ooh," Shannon whistled. " _Intrigue_ – well, that's why a U.S. embassy would want him. Former KGB?"

Gibbs shook his head – not as far as he knew. He just knew the guy was quiet, calculating, picked up on his job easily – and he knew that the head security officer didn't like him, but the younger Marine guards did – probably had something to do with a gift of homemade vodka – but one of the hiring officials involved had specifically vouched for this guy.

"Does he speak any English?" Shannon asked.

"English, Russian, French," Gibbs listed.

"Wow, what's it like to keep getting shown up at work, Jethro?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"I speak the only language that matters," he blustered.

"God, you're such a jingo."

"Oorah."

She grinned, biting her nail, and tilted her head towards the living room. She sat down on the couch, relaxed, and he sat down in his usual spot, leaning back and rubbing his neck. Holding her glass of wine delicately, and careful to avoid hitting his tumbler of whiskey, she shifted around and put her legs over his lap, snuggling up towards him.

"Kelly go to bed okay?"

"She was harassing me," Gibbs whined. "Tryin' to tell me the Moon has a different word – "

" _Lune_ , _Lune_!" Shannon imitated. "She's _so_ cute – don't you discourage her, Jethro, she's your entire world and you know it."

"Eh, you're in there, somewhere."

"I'm honored," Shannon said, eyes wide in mock surprise.

Gibbs grinned, and laid his hand over her thighs, drawing little circles on him with his thumb.

"I like it when she says _bateau_ ," Shannon said. "That little inflection she does, all prim and proper—like she's trying to tell us something."

"Yeah, she likes boats."

"She liked sailing, in Marseilles," Shannon remarked. She paused. "I bet we could find a place to keep a boat back in Alexandria," she mused. "A marina, or something? I want her to grow up liking outdoors-y things – we could take her fishing, my dad would never take me fishing – but boats are money pits – "

"Not if you build 'em right," Gibbs said, still stroking her leg. He shrugged. "I could built a damn sturdy boat."

"Oh _really_?"

"I damn near built a car, in Stillwater!" he protested.

"Yeah? I've never seen this alleged car – what happened to it?" she retorted.

Gibbs gave her a look.

"Had to quit spendin' money on parts when I got my girlfriend pregnant," he said dryly.

" _Ahhh_ ," Shannon murmured, laughing. She rested her head on the couch and smirked, taking a swallow of wine.

"I could built a boat," he said seriously. "Hell, I bet that basement in that Alexandria house is big enough – measure it out," he went on, wrinkling his brow. He nodded to himself. "Can't be much harder than that cradle I built Kelly."

"Sure, Jethro – sure, you build Kelly a boat; that'll be the day," Shannon snorted fondly.

"I will," he swore stubbornly, thinking of that house – Shannon's dream house, the one she'd only lived in and started decorating so briefly before they were sent off to Germany, then Paris – the one they'd get back to, when his time as a detachment commander was over, and Shannon decided it was time to find somewhere permanent for Kelly.

She was content where she was, though, for the moment – and it was nice knowing they had a forever home somewhere; even if Gibbs did twenty years in the Marines before they settled in, that would only be two-thousand-seven – Kelly would be thirteen or so – that seemed nice; primarily, when she thought about the future, Shannon was only concerned about making sure Kelly didn't have to move during high school; those years were so important, and they were the hardest years to start over during.

She missed home more than she used to, occasionally – home being the States – but Paris was nice; she wasn't going to complain about Paris.

"Who was on the phone, 'bout an hour ago?" Gibbs asked gruffly. He'd been giving Kelly a bath at the time, and usually calls to the house were for him, but Shannon hadn't come to get him, or tell him. "Joanne?" he asked.

"Ah, no, actually – your father," she said neutrally.

Gibbs' brow furrowed – that was slightly out of the ordinary, it not being a holiday – and Jackson usually waited for Shannon to call him, anyway. Gibbs' hand stopped moving, and Shannon sat forward slightly, pushing her hair back. It fell in a messy tangle down her back, and she watched Gibbs thoughtfully.

"What'd he want?" Gibbs finally ventured, unable to resist asking.

It occurred to him that Jackson was his only real link to Jenny – Jenny spoke to Jackson, Jackson spoke to Shannon – if something had happened with Natalie – but no; Shannon would tell him right away – wouldn't she…?

"Well, since you asked," Shannon said simply. "I – you know, it was a slightly surprising call, I got the feeling even he wasn't sure why he did it," she paused, looking at Gibbs carefully for a moment. "It seems – Chief, ah, Jasper Shepard is dead."

Gibbs, in the middle of taking a drink of bourbon, lowered his glass, taken aback – whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. His brows went up slightly, and he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing – was he startled because he cared, or because his father had called, or just – he stared at her, unsure how to react.

"Dead?" he repeated finally, brow furrowing. "He's _dead_?" Jasper Shepard just – he wasn't that old, and he'd always seemed healthy as a horse; it was hard to believe he'd just dropped dead.

Shannon nodded.

"He was killed in the line of duty," She said quietly. "Shot by some kid, according to your father – gang initiation, in one of the poorer counties," she clicked her tongue, her face falling. "Jackson said – it wasn't even the bullets that killed him; he took one to the chest, one to the knee –but he had a heart attack on the operating table."

To her surprise, Gibbs gave a short bark of laughter.

"He got shot twice and a heart attack had to come along to get 'im?" he asked, more in disbelief than actual mirth. "Sounds like the old man," he said – there was a hint of strain to his voice, a hint of memory.

He looked down into his glass, his hand sliding off Shannon's leg a little – he wondered why his father had decided to call and deliver that news. He wondered – he wondered a lot of things.

"Were – Jenny and her father close?" Shannon ventured timidly.

Gibbs sighed, his lips closed, still staring at his drink. He nodded cautiously.

"Before she got pregnant," he said gruffly. "After," he lifted the glass to his lips, shaking his head. "Ah, he never forgave her," Gibbs remembered – the stoic, proud Chief, retired Army Colonel, forever deeply ashamed of his tramp daughter – at least, as far as Gibbs knew. "Last I talk to him, he'd washed his hands of 'er," he added.

Of course, the last time Gibbs had spoken to Jasper Shepard, it had been nineteen eighty-seven, and he'd been telling the old man firmly that he was removing him from the legal child support documents, and that it was between him and Jen now.

Gibbs felt – strangely sad, strangle sympathetic; he wondered if the event had been hard on Jenny, if she was even still in contact with him.

"Dunno if they ever reconciled," he said dully.

"I think they did," Shannon piped up, holding her glass to her chest tensely. "I – he said, when I visited Stillwater, that he visited her in California, when she graduated college."

Gibbs looked at her critically.

"You saw 'im? You talked to 'im?" he demanded – Jesus, that had been two years ago, when he was in Baghdad and Kelly was a newborn – and she hadn't mentioned it. He didn't know how he felt about that, it seemed – out of place; wrong.

"In passing; he came by the general store," she answered.

Gibbs grunted. He thought about that – Jasper visiting Jenny for a graduation.

"Jen would've appreciated that," he said out loud.

Shannon gently bit down on the edge of her wine glass.

"We curse small towns, Jethro, but the world itself is a deceptively small place," she said thoughtfully.

There was a strange parallel in it all; how Jackson connected with Natalie via Jenny, and then Kelly via Shannon, and without any contact with his own son, vague messages and snippets of lives got relayed – Gibbs wondered if Jackson told Jenny things like he mentioned things to Shannon; he wondered if, despite his refusal to send pictures, Jenny knew about Shannon and Kelly.

Gibbs – he'd sent another card, this past November, and this past Christmas, for the important dates – Shannon had been dead serious when she said she was done with the cards. He'd still refrained from sending pictures, or a number, or adding Shannon and Kelly's names, and he had no indication that anything had changed but – at least he'd been persuaded, bullied, into taking that small step.

"Wonder if she went back," he said heavily. "For the funeral," he clarified.

He doubted it. He knew how much Jenny despised it there. He wasn't sure even her father's death could drag her back.

Shannon shrugged, her eyes soft.

"Jackson didn't mention her," she said sincerely – he really hadn't, which Shannon thought was odd, but she hadn't pressed.

To her surprise, Gibbs looked at her sideways, hesitated, and then cleared his throat.

"He – say anything about – Natalie?" he asked, clearly trying not to show too much interest, or convey in any way that he'd want to know something.

Shannon chewed on the inside of her lip, and shook her head slowly, apologetically. Gibbs shrugged it off – Jackson played it close to the vest; he respected Jenny's wishes all most too much, Gibbs figured – but then, Gibbs had been uninvolved for so long now –

Maybe that's why he'd been feeling off; maybe something in his gut had told him that the old days had started to die – the things tying him to his tumultuous teenage years in Stillwater were fading – and that was a very daunting thought, the idea that it was all being – erased, let go of.

Shannon slipped her hand into his, her fingers hugging his, squeezing comfortingly.

"You know that picture? The one of Natalie in the little lab coat, the one you keep in the back of your wallet?" she asked bravely.

He nodded, his thumb running along the edge of his tumbler. He looked over at her guardedly. She leaned forward, her eyes crinkling affectionately.

"You should pin it up in your office," she suggested firmly. "Next to that – picture of Kelly crying in front of the Parthenon."

He smiled a little – it was a funny picture, the one of Kelly in Greece – she'd been so unhappy all day, for some reason, and amidst a bunch of smiling faces – including her delighted mother, she'd been sobbing in front of such an awesome monument of world history. He thought about the picture, and shrugged a little. Shannon squeezed his hand again, and didn't say anything else about it – instead, she drained her wine glass, and held it against her chest, scooting forward.

"So," she drawled in a hushed, wry tone, wiggling her brows. She poked his thigh with her free hand. "Tell me more about this Soviet defector they had you babysitting – what's his name?"

Gibbs leaned back, slouching against the couch – he started rubbing his thumb on her thigh again, relieved the Natalie conversation was over, filing her suggestion away for later consideration – he cleared his throat and looked at her, cocking one eyebrow.

"Anatoly Zhukov," he said, imitating a thick, stereotypical Russian accent – it was erroneous, though; the man spoke perfect French – his mother had been French.

Shannon parted her lips and laughed, amused. She tossed her hair back, and asked something else, and Gibbs shrugged, not too up to speed on the answers – the things that mattered to him weren't so much the intricate political details of work, but the people he came home to, right here – Shannon, Kelly, and Bug – _Bugsy_.

* * *

 _"But I just don't know now_  
 _When all I want to do is try."  
The Killers; Somebody Told Me_

* * *

 _so - i think the song title / choice really illustrates everyone's pathetic lack of communication, and i also think that canonically (and this how i choose to represent them in each of my stories) Gibbs and Jenny are people who handle their issues very poorly: Jenny by defiantly acting out and refusing to introspect, and Gibbs by repressing and internalizing (exhibited on the show, hopefully exhibited here) - see you next week._

 _-alexandra_


	5. Under the Gun

_a/n: well, here we are._

* * *

Paris, France; Stillwater, Pennsylvania: 1997-1998

Under the Gun

* * *

Kelly Gibbs looked adorable in pigtails, there was no doubt about that. Even more adorable was the matter-of-fact way she ran ahead of her mother into her father's office at the embassy, crawled into his lap as he scooted his chair back, and pointed to one that was falling loose.

"Fix, _please_!" she requested.

"Hello to you, too," he returned gruffly.

" _Bonjour_ ," she sang, scrambling forward and kissing him on the cheek. She threw her arms around him and squeezed affectionately, turning and sitting in front of him, her legs dangling off his desk. She pointed to her hair again: "Fix!"

Gibbs grinned, and reached out, deftly untying the loose pigtail and combing it quickly with his fingers, careful not to pull. As he wrapped it back up and set it evenly, taking particular care to show her he was checking that they were even, Shannon leaned across the desk and kissed his cheek.

"Hi," she greeted warmly.

He smiled at her.

"How'd I get stuck with pigtail duty?" he asked.

"Mommy pulled it!" Kelly cried. "Ouch," she added.

Gibbs gave his wife a surprised look. She sat down on the corner of his desk gingerly, her cheeks flushing.

"I did," she admitted. "It's not what you think – Miss Kelly-Belle here thought she'd try running across the street to see some geese," she scolded gently. "The pigtail was closer than her hand – I was gentle, Kelly, you tell Daddy I was gentle."

Kelly nodded, hair swinging.

"No-run-'cross-street," she recited.

Gibbs nodded emphatically, and reached out to tickle her ribs. She squealed and hunched over, and he swept her off the desk into his lap, kissing the top of her head right between the pigtails.

"You be careful," he warned seriously. "Listen to Mommy, those streets are dangerous." He ruffled her hair, then made a show of very carefully straightening it again and leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. "Thought you were meeting me at the restaurant," he said.

"Well," Shannon sighed, shifting. She crossed one leg, and shrugged a little. "Kelly was a little restless, and she wanted to see you, so I thought we'd walk over – and since she'd be in bed before we got home, I humored her." She smiled at the two-and-a-half-year-old and put a hand on her hip. "Leon's just going to take her home with him."

She and Gibbs had dinner plans – Valentine's Day plans, to be specific; he'd surprised her and told her gruffly this morning that he was taking her to dinner at the Eiffel Tower, trying not to make a big deal of it – he'd also planned on taking her to the special exhibit at the Louvre, but there'd been an incident at the Embassy and he'd had to postpone.

She told him he didn't have to give her a rain check, but he swore he would – so, their plans had been changed to just dinner. Jackie and Leon Vance were watching Kelly for the evening – last year, Gibbs and Shannon had watched Kayla for them on the holiday, and Leon was on call tonight, anyway, so it was best he was at home and available.

"You gonna be good for Leon, Dolphin?" Gibbs asked, tilting his head.

" _Oui_ ," Kelly answered primly. " _Oncle_ Leooooo."

Gibbs gave her a mild glare.

Shannon laughed.

"Oh, Jethro, you know what that means – it's basically the same as English."

"But it has that stupid accent."

"That's not an _accent_. That is, in fact, the French language."

Gibbs rolled his eyes – coming up on three years in France, and he could still barely order dinner in the language. Meanwhile, his wife was half-fluent, his child was spending days at a French-speaking Montessori school, and even Leon was picking up the language easily.

"Kelly," he said seriously. "We're Americans."

She nodded, putting her thumb in her mouth.

" _Américaine_ ," she cooed. She giggled. Shannon cringed.

"Don't let her suck her thumb," she said.

Gibbs plucked the thumb from her mouth and dried it off on the edge of his uniform sleeve. He gave her a sorry-bout-it look and scrunched his nose.

"Mommy knows best," he advised.

"I'm going to start putting something icky on it when she sleeps," Shannon mused thoughtfully. "That's what my mother says people used to do—I never sucked my thumb, though, did - ?"

"Nope," Gibbs said, shaking his head before she could ask about Natalie. It was about the only time they talked about Natalie, these days – when she was asking questions, or comparing notes. The time was approaching when he'd have just as little experience as her; Kelly would be three in April, and Gibbs had stopped being involved when Natalie was about that age.

Kelly put her hands together and sighed. She tilted her head up.

" _Papa_ ," she squeaked, scrunching her nose. "Daddy. _Bateau_."

"Boat," he agreed. He gave her a look – he didn't really like being called Papa, but she did it sometimes, usually right when she was coming back from school. He thought it sounded snooty, which Shannon repeatedly reminded him was an absurd thing to think.

This time, though, she said nothing about his distaste, and even frowned a little. The irritating thing – well, not irritating per se, merely different – was that due to being inundated with two different languages, Kelly's speech development was slightly delayed, and though Shannon had originally thought it would be nice for her to be bilingual, she seemed to pick up more French than English for the moment, which bothered her mother more than she thought it should.

There was a knock on the door, and Leon Vance stepped in, arching a brow.

"I'm heading out," he said. "You ready for me to take the little one?" he asked.

Gibbs stood, after receiving a nod from Shannon. He patted some stray hairs down on Kelly's head, kissed her, and handed her to Shannon so Shannon could say goodbye as well.

"You be on your best behavior for Leon and Mrs. Jackie, okay?" Shannon advised. "You'll be asleep when Mommy and Daddy pick you up."

"Okie," Kelly said. She nodded, hair bouncing. " _Salut_."

"Bye-bye," Shannon said emphatically.

Vance grinned, and took her easily. He gave her a smile, and then turned back to Shannon and Gibbs.

"Don't worry about how late you are – I'll be up, and Jackie and Kayla both sleep like rocks," he said good-naturedly. "'M sure you'll wake her up taking her home, accidentally or not."

Shannon nodded – that was inevitable, but Kelly was good at going back to sleep. She folded her arms and gave her a small wave again – Kelly was also good with separation, which was a relief for Shannon – then again, they had trained her early. She'd begun Montessori school as early as Shannon was comfortable with, and she tended to trust anyone her parents trusted.

Vance didn't hang around and make a big deal about goodbyes, and Shannon turned, as Gibbs sat back down at his desk. He gestured at a comfortable chair in the room, checking his watch and then giving her an apologetic look.

"Got to finish this paperwork – mind hanging out?" he asked.

"No, I don't," she said simply – their reservations weren't for another hour or so, anyway. She strolled over to a filing cabinet where he had, held up by a magnet, a couple of pictures of Kelly. She paused, reaching out to touch the one single photo of Natalie as well, and then turned to him, leaning against it for a moment. "I actually had an ulterior motive in coming by," she confessed.

Gibbs looked up, leaning back a little. She bit the inside of her lip, and then came to sit down in the chair he'd gestured to, pursing her lips slightly.

"This about what I told you to think about?" he asked warily.

"Yes," she said, in a careful voice. "And I did – I know we can't stay in Paris longer than ninety-eight, though I'm glad you got the extra year."

Most postings for Marines were two years; if you were good, and desirable, you could extend to a third, and Gibbs had done that, just for stability's sake, and because they were happy here. Still, the time to bid for new postings always came up swiftly, and Gibbs had told Shannon, again, that she could pick. He always felt it was the least he could do, since his job was so – demanding, when it came to moving, hurrying up, waiting, and putting strain on dependents.

He considered her for a moment, and narrowed his eyes.

"You about to tell me you picked Vladivostok or somethin'?" he growled.

Shannon arched her brows, bemused.

"I thought you didn't care where we went," she retorted.

"I didn't think you'd pick Russia," he replied narrowly.

She shook her head, tilting it sideways fetchingly.

"I didn't," she soothed. She compressed her lips. "If anything, that Zhukov urchin has turned me off to that place completely, even St. Petersburg," she sighed. "No, ah, I just think you might be – surprised, by what I chose."

He leaned back, forgetting about his paperwork. That was – intriguing. Shannon wasn't a particularly unpredictable person – not anymore, at least, now that her adventure days were over; he couldn't imagine where she would choose that would take him off guard, unless she wanted him to go off to Baghdad or somewhere she couldn't accompany.

Abruptly, he was _startlingly_ worried that might happen – a thousand horrible thoughts crashed through his mind; how Jenny had left him when Natalie was about Kelly's age, how it had been because she thought the marriage would never work with him gone all the time –

"Jethro, I don't know what you're thinking," Shannon said warily, "but calm down."

He must be looking as suspicious as he was feeling. He tried to school his features, and leaned forward.

"What's goin' on, Shannon?" he asked seriously. "What couldn't wait until dinner?"

"I didn't want to talk during dinner because I want dinner to be romantic and enjoyable," she said simply. "Not— _business_."

"This is business?"

"Marriage is business," she said, matter-of-fact.

He smiled at her slowly, and then gestured with his hand – _go on._ She took a deep breath, and her shoulders fell slightly. Her face was thoughtful as she mulled over her words, and then she pushed some of her hair behind her ears.

"Jethro…I want to go back to the States," she began, in a very neutral tone, with no anger, sadness, excitement – just a very simple, straightforward tone.

He felt his heart trip, maybe stop a moment; it was his worst nightmare – she wanted to leave, and he hadn't even seen it coming – and she'd take Kelly with her, just like Jenny had – but surely Shannon would let him see Kelly, let him –

"Jesus _Christ_ , Leroy Jethro Gibbs, I'm not _leaving_ you," Shannon said loudly, literally snapping him out of it with a loud crack of her thumb and index finger. Despite his understandable misunderstanding, she laughed at him, breaking the tension a little. She bit her lip, and corrected herself a little. "I don't hate living in Europe, but I don't love it as much as I thought – or as much as some people might," she said frankly – again, very passive, very neutral.

He swallowed, relaxing just slightly – he still felt tense; hearing that she wasn't perfectly, blissfully happy worried him, and upset him – he liked when Shannon was happy, and he wasn't sure if he should feel guilty. He stared at her a moment, thinking, and then he blinked, heavily.

"You…can," he started slowly. She wasn't required to accompany him, even to posts that allowed it – she just wouldn't receive the housing allowance and tax benefits if she chose to remain behind when she was allowed at post – but that didn't matter; they were paying the mortgage on the Alexandria house anyway, so there would be no real strain on finances. "You don't have to – " he started.

"No," she interrupted, correcting him firmly. "Anywhere I'm allowed to accompany you, I will. I'm going. I'd rather be with you than separated, but," she swallowed hard, and shrugged half-heartedly. "I miss _home_. And if you get a chance in the next PCS pool, I'd be…happy…if you could request a transfer back."

It wasn't that she missed home, the dream house in Alexandria, specifically – she hadn't really gotten the chance to make that home yet. But she missed her country, her culture – regardless of what snobs said, there was something distinct about American culture – and easier travel to see her parents. Of course, part of that was absence making her heart grow much, much fonder of her mother than it was when they were in close proximity, but she did still miss them.

Gibbs nodded, tapping a pen on his jaw tensely – he understood; even back when she'd been young, traveling around, she'd said she had little interest in leaving the states; she'd been focused on seeing all the American capitols. It had been – ironically, it had been Jenny who wanted to see the whole world.

He set his jaw, tilting his head.

"I can't put in for a transfer back stateside to cover an embassy," he said gruffly – which was obvious to Shannon; there were no American embassies to guard within their own borders. "Unless I put in a bid to be an instructor, at the school back at Quantico," he added, more to himself than to her.

"I wondered about that," she said. "I also…can you note that you'd like to be considered for a promotion, and a change of MOS?"

He thought about it, and nodded slowly.

"Yeah, but there's no guarantee they'd put me at Quantico," he muttered.

" _That's_ okay, I – I'd love to live in the Alexandria house, but honestly just being back on American soil would be nice – you know, Kelly's just…oh, I don't know, Jethro, I sound so classless, I mean who _doesn't_ want to live abroad – "

"Hell, Shannon, I haven't even learned the language!" he snorted, gesturing to himself – he understood what she meant exactly; they could call him uncouth all they wanted, it made him nervous sometimes that Kelly was picking up more of a foreign language than of her own.

He smirked slightly.

"Other option is, I put in for retirement," he said, a little uncertainly. Ninety-eight would be his re-contract year, as it were – but he couldn't imagine himself doing anything else.

Shannon looked startled.

"Leave the Marines?" she asked, aghast. "But – that's who you _are_."

He grinned at her a little – glad she felt the same. He shrugged, though.

"Can't do it forever – figured I'd at least do my twenty years, though, come out about two thousand – eight or somethin', Kelly'd be…"

"Fourteen," Shannon supplied, making a face.

He nodded. He shrugged again – it never occurred to him to have a plan after the Corps.

"But if you're serious about this, Shannon – "

"It's not an ultimatum," she said honestly. "Jethro, I – no, you should do your twenty years; you'd get your retirement, your benefits – you could even take some time off, before you found something else, later," she advised. "I just wanted to put the bug in your ear so we don't – I don't know, end up in fifteen years with a child – children – who speak other languages better than English and think America is a quaint vacation spot instead of home."

Gibbs nodded, and she went on.

"I thought if I told you that, you'd understand better my list of posts," she added. "I know you were expecting me to put Rome, and I did, but – it's third, on the list."

Gibbs arched his brows – he was surprised by that; Shannon loved Rome. She never felt like she had enough time to see it, the couple of times they'd made a trip.

"What's the list?"

"Canada, Mexico City, and Rome."

Gibbs nodded. His brow furrowed, so she explained:

"They border the U.S., so it's somewhat easier to travel – they're on the same continent," she explained. "Canada is English and French speaking, so that's even better."

He nodded, leaning forward and holding up his hand.

"You got to pick somethin' different from Mexico City," he said.

"It's accompanied – " she started.

"Yeah, but it's not safe," he said flatly. "Half the country's run by drug lords – Shannon, I'll do what I can to get us back to the U.S., but not by goin' to Mexico," he said bluntly. "Cartel there killed a Navy sailor last year – Vance helped on the international leg of the case."

Shannon nodded, clasping her hands. Gibbs rubbed his jaw.

"If I volunteer for a hardship post, Tripoli or Baghdad, I'd have more pull in getting a new MOS or Canada, maybe – "

Shannon shook her head.

"I can live with Europe a while longer if you don't throw yourself into crosshairs," she said sharply.

He considered her, thinking about it – his best chance was probably putting in for a promotion, doing another tour of duty, and asking to be assigned as an instructor at Quantico – best case scenario, that would work for all of them—he could probably ride that last posting out until retirement, and that would keep them stable in Virginia for a while.

He rubbed his face, and leaned forward, chewing his lip a moment.

"Here's what I'll do," he said gruffly. "I'll note that I want promotion consideration in my next review – I'll request consideration for MSG instructor, Quantico – but I got to tell you, Shannon, they're gonna push me to another embassy cycle first. Maybe two, unless I up my pull with a danger assignment."

Shannon nodded thoughtfully.

"Okay," she said slowly. "I'll keep Canada at the top of my list. I'll move Rome to second, and I'll…I'll think about something, instead of Mexico City. Australia or London, maybe – English, at least," she said – the thought of adjusting to another new language was exhausting. She nodded to herself again, and smiled, shoulders falling.

He looked at her uncertainly.

"Shannon, 'm – 'm sorry if you're – I'd have never switched my MOS from sniper if I knew – "

"Oh, please don't apologize, Jethro, I'm happy," she said softly. "I'm happy with you. For the hundredth time, I know what I sighed up for, and even when it's stressful or hard, it's what I chose." She leaned forward. "And don't think for a second I'd go back to the states without you – Kelly would never forgive me."

Gibbs grinned at her, grateful. He checked his watch, and looked dubiously at the incident report he was supposed to be covering – looked like it would have to wait until tomorrow morning; he needed to change out of his combat uniform and into something Eiffel Tower appropriate, which he had hanging up in the office.

"You ready to go? I'll change," he said, standing up.

She nodded, also standing.

"I'm going to drop by and say hello to the Chief of Mission – his wife had a baby, you know, I want to congratulate," she trailed off, and pushed the chair away, grabbing her purse. Something clicked, and Gibbs reached out, catching her hand.

"Earlier – you say _children_?" he asked, brow furrowed. "Our _children_ thinking of the states as vacation?"

He looked at her intently, and she put her hand on his chest.

"I'm not pregnant," she said. "But I was thinking – we should talk about that, when we know where our orders are next – if we did anything now, I'd be having a baby around PCS time, but," she trailed off carefully. "Well, we should talk about it, if we want another," she finished softly, matter-of-factly.

He stepped closer to her, and bent to give her a quick kiss on the lips – he liked the idea, and he hoped she could tell that immediately; they hadn't particularly planned Kelly, though Shannon had always said she wanted kids, but he was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he was all for the idea, once she mentioned it.

Even if – well, for a split second he thought it pushed him that much further away from Natalie, but he pushed the thought away. He smiled at Shannon, and started to shoo her out.

"Is Anatoly still here?" Shannon asked mildly. "I had to make small talk with him coming in, his office was open – it always feels like he's being mechanically induced to be social in a textbook way – "

"Hey, yeah, what'd you mean earlier?" Gibbs asked, stopping again. " _Urchin_?"

Shannon sighed, standing at the door, her hand on the knob.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't like him. He's – he was okay at first, the stereotypical cold, stiff Russian, but he – he always seems off. Maybe it's that new girlfriend. I _don't_ like Svetlana, Jethro – and she scares Kelly," Shannon said protectively – and Kelly wasn't shy of strangers, either.

This blonde woman, this Svetlana Anatoly had attached himself to, and brought around, she had a saccharine way of speaking that just seemed to terrify Kelly as much as Ursula in _The Little Mermaid_.

Gibbs nodded, his face unreadable. He'd suspected his wife was getting increasingly hostile towards Zhukov, but hearing it out loud made him wary. He himself didn't get warm fuzzies around the guy, and Vance hated him. However, since he'd been abruptly hired over two others last year, both Gibbs and Vance had been read into the fact that he was hired on order of the CIA, and they were to deal with it – and that was the end of that.

"I know it sounds silly," Shannon muttered.

"S'not silly," Gibbs said firmly. He wasn't blowing off her intuition, and he'd mention them once again to the liaison. "Trust your gut, Shannon," he said seriously.

She arched her brows.

"What does yours say about him?" she asked wryly.

Gibbs looked at her a moment, and then smirked.

"He's keepin' me from treatin' my wife to dinner," he griped lightly.

Shannon laughed, and left the office with a small wave, intending to wait for him outside the Chief's office while he got dressed and ready to head out. When the door shut behind her, Gibbs reached for the collar of his stiff uniform and started undoing it, a frown etched on his lips, and in the lines of his brow – the thing was, Shannon was right about the change in Zhukov's manner since he'd started up with Svetlana – and Gibbs wondered if the CIA had any qualms about that – after all, Zhukov may have defected, but his girlfriend still held her Russian citizenship, and the most effective tool of tradecraft was the honey trap.

* * *

Shannon gave an extremely limited celebration for Kelly's third birthday for two reasons: one, because it was a third birthday party, and she didn't believe in extravagance for small children, two because the parents of Kelly's little friends spoke mostly French, and she did not want to exhaust herself playing translator between them and Jethro all day.

She stipulated no gifts, and it was a small cookout in their modest backyard, at which the Vance family remained much longer than Kelly's little friends Luc, Adele, Cleménce, Amalia, and Louise. Gibbs was clearly more relaxed once the only other people in his space were the English-speaking Vances and their little daughter, Kayla.

Kayla and Kelly were currently aggravating the hell out of the dog, though as usual, Bugsy was calmly accepting of the whole thing – even of Kelly repeatedly readjusting where she clipped the pretty barrettes she was putting in her fur.

"Kelly," Shannon warned, "If you hurt Bugsy, she might snap at you. Be gentle."

They were always extremely diligent about warning Kelly that no matter how comfortable she was with Bugsy, and how much Bugsy loved her, Bugsy was still very much a dog, and if you provoked a dog, you couldn't really get mad at it for biting.

"Kayla, you remember that's not even your dog," Leon said, snorting a little.

Jackie rolled her eyes, sitting on the porch swing with Shannon, content for the evening.

"Anyway," Shannon said, in a low voice, returning to their conversation. "Neither of us is entirely sold on the idea, if that makes sense – or we're not entirely ready to go for it _yet_ ," she explained. "I might even like to wait as long as until Kelly starts Kindergarten."

"Well, at least then you'd have a six or so hour break where you only have one," Jackie said with a laugh. She arched her brow. "You've got it smart, waiting until you know where you'll be securely to decide – especially if your next move is mid ninety-eight – believe me," Jackie said pointedly.

Shannon started to nod, raising an eyebrow.

"And why should I believe you so willingly?" she asked intuitively.

Jackie beamed.

"I'm out of the worry zone, so," she began. Shannon clasped her hands with a small, clichéd squeal. Jackie laughed, putting her hand on her friend's knee. "I'm due in October," she confided.

"Sounds like someone told her secret," Leon said loudly, strolling a little closer with his beer in hand. He smiled at Shannon and Jackie. "That mean I'm good to go?"

Jackie nodded patiently.

"Ay, Gibbs," Leon called. He gestured at his wife. "'M gonna be a father again."

Gibbs congratulated him, smirking slightly.

" _Men_ , they take such pride in it," Jackie said, rolling her eyes and extending her foot to kick Leon gently. "As if they wouldn't run from labor if they had to go through it."

"What the hell do you call breaking two of my fingers, if that's not goin' through it?" Leon griped.

Shannon gave him a look.

"Not even _close_ ," she said pointedly – having opted for no drugs during her own experience, she felt she had the most knowledge on just exactly how difficult it was.

"October, huh?" Gibbs asked. He winced.

"Yeah," Jackie sighed. "I may be taking Kayla and staying with my mother to look for a house, to avoid being here when it's born, or traveling, or – ugh."

Leon was being transferred back to a domestic NCIS office at the end of September; NCIS Los Angeles. Gibbs was going to miss working with him, and he was sure Shannon was going to miss having such a close female friend – though she got on well with the women she worked with, and with Luc and Adele's mother next door.

Still, Gibbs felt a little bad about it – Jackie was her American friend, her link to home, and knowing she missed home and was losing her closest connection to it – besides him – and someone who understood all the moving and whatnot – he felt for her.

Not that Shannon had uttered a dissatisfied word.

"Daddy," Kelly yelped. "Come play."

Gibbs looked at his half-drunk beer.

"Daddy," Kayla mimicked immediately. "Play!"

Leon and Gibbs shared a look, simultaneously decided to quickly finish the rest of the drinks – waste not, want not – and then headed over to appease their children.

"Kelly pinched me," Kayla said abruptly.

"Kayla pushed me," Kelly retorted.

"Liars," Leon retorted.

Jackie rolled her eyes, brow furrowing, and looked back at Shannon, amused.

"We never have decided if the girls love each other or hate each other," she snorted.

Shannon sighed, shaking her head – that was the eternal question, with Kelly and Kayla.

"So, you want a boy or a girl?"

"Of course I'm obligated to say I want a healthy child," Jackie said levelly, "but I like the idea of one of each – and besides, we have a boy's name ready. Jared, after Leon's father."

"Jared," Shannon repeated. "Nice and simple – well, I get it; I think I'd like a boy, if we had another. Jethro would probably definitely want a boy," she added, laughing lightly. "He's batting oh-for-two."

Jackie gave her a funny look.

"Are you hiding one?" she asked, amused.

"Oh – no, he's got a daughter from a previous relationship," Shannon said, lowering her voice. She looked concerned. "I swear I've mentioned that."

"Ahh, I knew that," Jackie said, smacking her forehead lightly. "Leon's mentioned it – the lab coat picture, in his office?"

"That's her," Shannon confirmed.

"God, how old is that girl? She looks old in the picture – Leon said she was born early," Jackie lowered her voice, too, glancing over Shannon's shoulder. "Does he mind if we talk about this?" she asked.

Shannon hesitated.

"You know, honestly, as long as we don't make him talk about it," she said frankly. "Natalie's – uh, she's at _least_ twelve now. Her birthday's in November. I think she turns thirteen."

Jackie looked patiently at her friend. Shannon lifted her eyes.

"He was seventeen," she sighed, answering the question.

Jackie looked surprised.

"He doesn't really seem like the type," she remarked.

"What, the sexually active type?" Shannon snorted. "Honey, if you grew up in Stillwater, you'd understand; there's _nothing_ else to do."

Jackie laughed quietly.

"No, I mean – the irresponsible type."

"Well, it could have happened to any of them," Shannon said neutrally. "It could have happened to me, I suppose, except I always said no – and I didn't meet Jethro first," she added thoughtfully. "I wonder about it, what would have happened if me and his ex had been swapped. I don't think I'd have left him. But I think my parents would have made me let them raise the baby. And his ex did it by herself, even in Stillwater."

Jackie gave a frank shudder.

"The worst thing is, it could have been _me_ ," she said dryly. "When I think about what a slut I was in high school – "

"Oh, Jackie, _stop_ – "

"No, really," Jackie said, smirking a little. "I'd have had an abortion, though," she added, as a simple afterthought.

"Would you?" Shannon asked, unassuming.

"That young? Yeah. My Mama always told me 'Jackie, the world does not need another teen black statistic – you get your ass to school' – that kind of thing," Jackie recited. "Wouldn't you?"

"I don't think so," Shannon mused quietly. "But maybe I'm biased because I know how good of a father Jethro was, even when he was that young."

Jackie nodded, looking back over at the paternally attentive men.

"We got good ones," she said.

"Didn't we?" agreed Shannon smugly. "It breaks my _heart_ , what Natalie's missing. Though I suppose her mother could have remarried."

Gibbs didn't seem to think that had happened, or _would_ happen; Gibbs was still the one sending holiday cards now, and signing them, but he hadn't ever included a picture or Kelly's name or anything. While Shannon didn't think it was unfair for him to have married and moved on, she was offended on behalf of him at the idea of some other man raising Natalie, or being a father to her – because it wasn't Gibbs' fault that he wasn't around, and that was half the reason Shannon used to push for him to at least be a presence in some way, so Natalie could never assign her affections to someone else and start thinking bad of him.

"So he doesn't have any contact with her?" Jackie asked.

Shannon shook her head firmly.

"I washed my hands of it, a year or so ago," she confessed. "I wasn't willing to let it continue to be one of the only things that causes big fights for us."

Jackie looked past Shannon at Gibbs, her lips turning down.

"I feel for him," she murmured.

"You should," Shannon said quietly. "It kills him. He just doesn't let anyone know it kills him."

"Mommy, when do we get cake?"

Shannon turned around sharply at the sound - -because it was clearly one of the men – Leon, she discovered – imitating a small child's voice. She gave him a slightly amused look, and Jackie snorted.

"You don't need any cake, Leon, you got a physical qualification coming up!"

"That wasn't me; that was Kayla!"

"Kelly wants cake, too," Gibbs advised gruffly.

Shannon got up, sharing a look with Jackie – they hadn't done cake while the other kids were over and playing, because Shannon was uncomfortable offering sweets to other people's children, and she'd only made a small one, anyway, to keep from having leftovers haunt the house for days.

"Kayla, Kelly, let's go wash hands," Jackie called helpfully, holding out hers.

The girls came running, and Leon and Gibbs brushed themselves off, Gibbs giving Bugsy a sharp whistle as they came towards the house.

"Congratulations, Leon," Shannon said, extending the wishes again.

He smiled at her proudly.

"Appreciate it, Shannon," he said. "And I'm gonna be around more, for this one, I was on assignment with NCIS when Kayla was born," he said. "Lookin' forward to it – investigator positions in the states're much more family friendly."

"I hope we can keep in touch when you go back," Shannon said earnestly.

"Hell, Jackie'll make sure that happens," Leon said. He folded his arms, and jerked his head at Gibbs. "And you tell this one, when he's done with the jarhead look, I'll put in a word for 'im at NCIS," he growled. "We could use agents like him."

"There's an idea," Shannon said brightly. "We were talking about how we had no idea what he'd do if he wasn't a Marine – why not just join NCIS? It's like, civilian MPs – Jethro was an MP at Lejeune, when he first got in," she explained.

Vance turned a serious glare on Gibbs.

"I'm tellin' ya, man, we got a desk with your name on it," he provoked.

"Ah, what the hell does NCIS need with me?" Gibbs griped.

"Well, former military do about one of three things – private guns for hire, federal law enforcement, or can't readjust and end up screwed – now I'm bettin' you're like me, and you ain't got any respect for private guns – and I doubt you want your wife and baby livin' in a cardboard box with you, though I bet Shannon would get all your money – that leaves law enforcement, and I hate the FBI, and I got a bet with the DS Agent at post that you'll go NCIS – can't betray the Marines."

Shannon giggled, her eyes wide.

"Why, Leon, you've thought it through so much – it's like you're trying to steal my husband," she teased.

He shrugged, and gave her a gruff look.

"The man's got honor, Shannon," he said. "'Sides, NCIS is on this trend of hiring techie recent graduates, affirmative action women, and master's degrees – nothin' wrong with any of that," he said quickly, "but none of 'em have a lick of real world experience, and they can be a bitch to work with – be nice to have some more prior military around."

Vance clapped his hand on Gibbs' back, and Shannon nodded, arching her brows.

"Well, I think we're almost locked in to – which was it?" she asked.

"Ankara," Gibbs grunted.

" _Ankara_ ," Shannon said, a little exasperated, a little amused, "but I'll keep that idea in his head – NCIS headquarters is right near that house we have in Alexandria, anyway."

Things had gotten absurdly twisted – Gibbs was still under consideration for promotion and a change of MOS, and probably would be for a good while longer – his request to be an instructor at Quantico had been denied, but he'd been all but promised the post in the _next_ round if he volunteered to go to Ankara, where apparently no one wanted to go. Shannon had agreed, so unless he suddenly received a change of MOS, they were going to be in Turkey from late ninety-eight until the millennium.

Shannon stepped back.

"I'm going to get the cake ready – Jethro, clean up those beer bottles?" she asked, though it was more of a polite order.

Gibbs turned to do that, giving a sudden sharp whistle when he realized Bugsy was licking one diligently.

"Dog's got good taste," Vance laughed, helping to pick up a little. "Atta girl."

Gibbs snorted, shaking his head, and ruffled Bugsy's ears – she had a pretty, sparkling green ribbon tied on her tail, glitter on her nose, and barrettes on her ears – such a tolerant dog. Gibbs made a mental note to get a picture of her and Kelly later.

"Man, I can't wait to get outta here," Vance muttered, throwing some of the trash away with Gibbs. "Intrigue, intelligence – I hate tradecraft, it just throws lives away," he growled. "Good ol' hang 'em high, cops and robbers cop work, gimme that."

"That what you're lookin' at, in L.A.?"

"Yeah," Vance sighed. "They got me in position as a second supervisory – workin' under a Don McClane, good man – I worked with one of his old probies for a bit, Whitney Sharpe. She's in recruitment, now – I keep yellin' your name at her," he joked.

"See the haircut, Vance?" Gibbs growled. "S'not goin' anywhere soon."

Vance shrugged good-naturedly. He glanced over his shoulder, and caught Gibbs' arm, lowering his voice.

"I asked around some more, tryin' to see if they're gonna read me or you in anymore on this CIA thing," he said in a low voice. "No dice – but when I brought it up, that liaison guy, the one pretendin' he does admin work? He got sour with me."

"Yeah, didn't like me stickin' my nose in, either," Gibbs said dryly. "Asked 'im if he considered whether Svetlana could be a honey trap," he snorted.

"Chernestkaya?" asked Vance. "I dunno what they're thinkin' about her, but they think they got it under control, and whatever this Op is, I don't think they do – but that's the damn CIA, always playing with fire – nah, not with fire, with goddamn nuclear bombs."

Gibbs shrugged warily, thinking of Shannon's suspicions, her dislike for Zhukov. He wasn't read in on what was going on, beyond he and Vance finally being told at least that Zhukov was a CIA plant, working in his capacity as an informant.

"I don't think that girl is involved," Vance said flatly. "She's pretty, she's young, she's a piece of home," he listed. "That's the part that's got me – what if this guy ain't a defector? What if he ain't on our side at all?"

Gibbs didn't say anything, brooding over it – he wasn't sure the CIA could be that blind, or if they were, they had to be close to rooting that out and nipping it in the bud – he disagreed with Vance, he did have a problem with the woman – young and pretty didn't mean shit, when the old U.S.S.R. and the KGB had been notorious for using women as tools of western destruction. The one thing he was sure of was that defectors didn't seem like the type that could be trusted – being a Marine, being a bona-fide pillar of everything that _semper fidelis_ meant, Gibbs tended to think – once a turncoat, always a turncoat.

* * *

It was a frosty day in Paris, and the mucky smattering of snow wasn't pretty – after so many winters there, the sparkle of snow on the city of light was no longer magical; it was just dirty snow in a city. Gibbs was conducting a run-of-the-mill drill with his Marine detachment when the Paris Chief of Mission himself came jobbing into the drill area and interrupted. He waved his hands, wincing, and received a glare from Gibbs – but it wasn't too menacing of a glare, since technically this guy had a lot of rank and pull, and if he was interrupting, it could be a problem that required Marine attention.

"Take a break," Gibbs ordered at his men, turning to the diplomat. The state department agent who had been training with them stepped up as well, looking interested.

"Sorry to interrupt," the diplomat said warily. "Gibbs, the NCIS agents locked themselves in a room with your wife – now I don't know what's going on, but – "

" _What_?" Gibbs barked. That didn't sound like them at all – even if he didn't know these NCIS agents as well as he'd known Vance, he trusted them; they were good men. "What the hell are you talkin' about?" Gibbs snapped.

"Hey, whoa," the security agent stepped up, giving the diplomat an absurd look. "Locked themselves up with her - ?"

"Look, only reason I know is because I tried to use a conference room, and that administrative guy told me it was in use. I saw him open the door, and those guys were in there with her – slammed it in my face, and locked it," the diplomat growled, affronted. "I'm goin' to talk to the ambassador, but if it was my wife, I'd want to know."

Gibbs nodded, setting his jaw.

"Yeah, thanks, Greg," he said stiffly. He started past him roughly, the security agent on his heels.

" _Administrative_ guy?" Agent Katsopolis sneered. "He means that CIA plant."

"The Chief doesn't know the CIA has a plant in the Embassy?"

"Eh, they know," Katsopolis said. "CIA just doesn't tell 'em who or where, usually. Hell, half the time they don't even tell us."

Gibbs didn't answer; he continued his march through the elegant maze of the embassy until he found the administrative wing, located the only conference room that was tucked away, and had a door shut, and marched straight over to violently shake the handle. Against his better judgment, he banged on the door with a flat open palm.

That did it; the door opened, and there stood a wary looking Kurt Mitchell, Vance's NCIS liaison replacement. Behind him, Gibbs spotted his boss, Agent McAlister, and at the table sat the nondescript human resources guy who was, in reality, nothing of the sort – and he'd didn't look nondescript now, he looked furious, and every bit a CIA agent.

"What in the hell are you doin', Mitchell?" growled Gibbs, pushing forward.

"Easy, Jethro," Mitchell said, holding up his hand. He pressed it to Gibbs' chest warningly. "I'm here for you guys, we're here for the Marines," he said firmly. "Your wife came to us – can't say we knew what we were stepping into."

Gibbs shoved past him, and he knew that Katsopolis entered as well, shooting a wary look around the room. The door slammed again, and Gibbs ignored the outraged look of the CIA guy. The CIA guy stood up, leaning forward, all business –

"Mr. Gibbs – " He started.

"Gunnery Sergeant," Gibbs barked at him coldly. "I'm in uniform, _sir_ ," he said, his tone derogative.

He turned his back on the guy, sitting on the table, and looking down at his wife – Shannon was sitting across from CIA guy, looking small, worried, and – he noticed immediately when she looked up – she was crying. Gibbs reached out to touch her cheek gently, brushing some lingering tears away. She wiped at her eyes and looked at him desperately, and he twisted, his eyes narrowing.

"Why is my wife crying?" he asked dangerously.

To his satisfaction, something about his tone and demeanor managed to quail the CIA guy a little bit – Joseph Galvin was the name they all knew him by, though it was common knowledge among those who knew he was CIA that it wasn't his actual name.

Galvin grit his teeth. Before he could say anything, Mitchell folded his arms.

"'Cause Galvin's been shouting at her," he revealed coolly.

"You ain't helpin' shit, Mitchell," McAlister growled tensely.

Mitchell shrugged.

"NCIS protects Marine and Navy service members and dependents," he said doggedly. "This guy is a threat."

"I'm not a fucking _threat_ , I'm protecting an operation that's been in place for _years_!" barked Galvin.

"That's the problem with you – effin' – 'scuse me ma'am—Langley ninjas – "

"HEY," Gibbs shouted roughly. He held up his hands – and even in a room full of masculine bravado and people with authority, his order, spoken in uniform, carried a lot of weight. He swallowed hard. He nodded at Shannon. "What happened?" he asked her directly.

She took a deep breath, pressing her knees together and rubbing her elbows anxiously.

"I was coming to surprise you for lunch," she began in a shaky voice. "One of the security agents said you were drilling the Marines, so I went in the courtyard to – to wait," she explained. "I was over by the flower garden – I heard _voices_ , Jethro," she said, as if she were trying to justify herself, "so I stepped through that brick archway, you know, near the back entrance to the Ambassador's quarters, and I almost ran smack into – Anatoly and Svetlana."

She paused, and swallowed, her eyes on his.

"I – well, I made small talk, I was being _polite,_ but she acted extremely cold to me, and then I noticed, I," she paused, and lifted her eyes. "She had _classified_ files in her bag, Jethro; I know the markings. Top Secret labels. He _must_ have given them to her."

Gibbs nodded, listening. He didn't bother at looking at anyone else in the room – other than Katsopolis, they had all presumably heard the story.

"I pretended I hadn't noticed, and I left, and he – he _followed_ me," she said, in a worried voice. "I didn't know what the hell to think, but I ignored him, and he – he turned off into the resource office, and I went straight to the NCIS liaison and reported the incident – and the next thing I know, he," she gestured to Galvin, "is throwing a fit, and dragging me in here – "

Gibbs turned sharply.

"She reported a security breach," he growled. "She did exactly what she's s'pose to," he said tersely. "You want to explain – "

"Zhukov was doing what he was instructed to do!" Galvin fired back.

"He was instructed to give classified information to a non-cleared individual?" Katsopolis asked, his eyes bulging. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Galvin – "

"You're damn right you don't!" seethed Galvin. He slammed his hand down. "Before I had gotten to 'em, you fucking Navy boys had put in a note to the ambassador, to the security office – what a fucking – "

"Jesus, Joe, cut out the language," barked Mitchell, bristling again. He thrust his hand out at Shannon. "You expect her to just know you've got some covert op going with the bastard? She's not even embassy personnel – and our predecessor told us that guy's bad news – "

"He isn't bad news, he's a vital operative – he wasn't giving her anything that he wasn't cleared to give – "

"You can't run a covert operation right under our nose and expect the average person to think its normal when a former Soviet tosses class information to his girlfriend!" McAlister said coldly.

Galvin turned, curled his hand into a fist, and pressed it hard against the wall. He turned back, biting his knuckles, and then leaned forward, hands braced on the table stiffly.

"She's not his girlfriend – she's KGB," he said in a low voice.

Shannon leaned forward.

"She's his girlfriend," she snapped.

"Look, lady – "

"Don't 'look, lady' me," Shannon snarled shakily. "She may be what you say, but she's also his girlfriend. If he was supposed to be faking it, like in some – some – Bond movie, it's not fake anymore – and if that's true, anyone who's _seen_ a movie knows _you're_ in trouble."

Gibbs didn't have to study Galvin for more than a minute to know that Shannon had obviously hit a very sore nerve; her intuitive statement silenced the CIA guy, and the NCIS agents shared a dubious glance with each other.

Katsopolis stepped forward.

"Listen, Galvin – you're sayin' Zhukov has been – what, some kind of double agent? Pretending he's a not a defector, letting this woman handle him, make her think he's on their side – "

"I'm not sayin' a damn thing," Galvin snapped. "This is _proprietary_ – not a single one of you are cleared – "

"You better read us in," Gibbs interrupted icily.

McAlister stepped forward tensely, nodding curtly.

"We followed protocol exactly, we alerted the proper authorities – if she blew some kind of clandestine operation, if she outed him, she could be in danger – "

"I didn't blow anything," Shannon spoke up, her face blanching. "I tried to – I am protecting my country – " she protested, face flaming.

Gibbs rested his hand on her shoulder, nodding to her. Soothingly, he rubbed her collarbone lightly, and turned a menacing eye on the CIA guy again – he had rarely seen Shannon this upset, and she looked downright terrified of what was happening – he wondered what Galvin had said to her before he'd showed up; he wondered if she'd been threatened.

"Zhukov is not a threat to her," Galvin blustered. "Zhukov is ours – she just – ah," he broke off again, biting his knuckles. He held up his hand. "The Russians'll hear about this, and if he doesn't go to them for protection, they'll know he's a defector and they'll kill him – goddammit, we're losing a vital intelligence link, we'll have to neutralize – "

"What about his life?" Shannon asked, sitting forward in her seat. "If they kill him because – "

"Because you couldn't keep your mouth shut?" Galvin asked her angrily.

Shannon sat back, and Gibbs resisted the urge to throw himself across the table and throttle Galvin until he begged for mercy. Shannon bowed her head and covered it with one hand, hunching her shoulders. Gibbs crouched down next to her, resting his hand on her knee. The younger NCIS agent – the feisty one – stepped up behind Shannon's chair.

"You want to tell me how she was in the wrong for reporting a possible risk?" he demanded. "For all she knew, he was a traitor, and she saved the whole embassy from being betrayed!" he growled. "You CIA jockeys, it's all a game to you – you run ops like this and throw tantrums when they blow – you don't even have the right people read in – "

"Under no circumstance would we have read a civilian dependent in – "

"No, but if you'd read in the head Marine guard, or NCIS – hell, even State, then someone could have hinted at her that he was not a risk!" bellowed Mitchell. "I got two or three reports and complaints on Zhukov goin 'back to when that Vance guy was here before me –and you're runnin' around, ignorin' it – I bet you've lost a little of your control and you guys have been tryin' to clean it u – "

"You don't know what you're talkin' about – "

"Hey, hey, HEY," McAlister yelled. He had a hard look on his face, and he held up his hands. "Everybody cool it – Galvin, you ain't got a right to say a damn thing to Mrs. Gibbs; you run ops like this, you run the risk of this happenin' – Mrs. Gibbs," he said seriously, "You did the right thing. Don't listen to this prick."

Galvin fumed, his face paling, and Katsopolis stepped in.

"Joe," he growled. "You, me – we got to meet with the Ambassador about – this, whatever this is – you call your Director, you demand authority to read people in – emergency authority, for Gibbs here, too," he said.

"You're not in charge here, Katsopolis," Galvin blustered.

"If I got anything to say about it, you aren't in charge much longer," Katsopolis retorted coolly. "You bring in Zhukov, find him," he added.

Galvin folded his arms.

"I need an hour, at least," he snarled. "To talk to my director, to get my analysts to get a report together – and I've got to find out what Zhukov's hearing from the Soviets, or what the blonde thinks of it," he muttered, glaring daggers at them all – but more than anything, he looked like a wild animal backed into a corner, desperate, losing control – and Gibbs watched him critically, thinking there was more to this – he wasn't so sure Anatoly Zhukov was a double agent – at least not the kind the CIA thought he was.

"How sure are you that Zhukov's been working for you, and not them?" Gibbs asked sharply.

"He's ours," snapped Galvin. "We turned him – he's ours," he said, tongue-tied.

Katsopolis eyed the guy warily, and Mitchell snorted derisively.

"It'd be pretty embarrassing if he wasn't," McAlister said coldly. He shrugged. "Then I reckon you'd have to thank Mrs. Gibbs here for savin' your ass before real damage was done."

Galvin grit his teeth. He threw a nasty look at them all, and then straightened up, fixing his immaculate tie.

"Call an emergency briefing with the Ambassador," he said tensely. "I'll make the necessary inquiries."

He left without much more adieu, and after a moment, Katsopolis rubbed his mouth, gave Gibbs a quick nod, and went after them, leaving them both alone in the room with the two NCIS agents. Shannon uncovered her face, wiping at her cheeks, and looked around.

"I just thought I'd come for lunch," she burst out desperately – the whole thing was so absurd to her, and having no interest in or experience with the intelligence and security community, she wasn't exactly sure what she'd done or what she was being accused of. She looked at Gibbs. "Jethro, that man isn't what they think he is – I _saw_ the look in his eyes when I walked into them – he's dangerous, and I always thought I just didn't like him but if he's a – if he's a spy – "

Gibbs nodded, and one of the NCIS agents patted her shoulder.

"It's okay, Mrs. Gibbs, we're gonna get to the bottom of this," Mitchell assured her confidently. "You were right comin' to us," he told her again.

She looked at them, her eyes wet.

"Thank you," she said emphatically. "Thank you for – sticking up for me."

"That's what we do, Ma'am," McAlister said gruffly. He cleared his throat. "We're law enforcement. Not _Mission: Impossible_ wannabes."

Shannon smiled weakly, and Gibbs looked up at the two agents. He considered them for a moment, and the ncleared his throat gruffly.

"McAlister – you served?" he asked.

"U.S. Army, Viet Nam," McAlister answered.

Gibbs nodded.

"You mind goin' and drilling my Marines? Finish up?" he asked.

McAlister grinned smugly.

"Sure, I reckon' I can give 'em a real, Army, work out," he snorted, teasing good-naturedly.

Gibbs rolled his eyes, and after a moment, the two NCIS agents retreated, shutting the door, and leaving Gibbs and Shannon alone in the conference room. She sniffled softly, and wiped at her eyes again.

"How did you know I was in here?" she asked shakily.

"Seems Galvin got sharp with the Chief of mission. He recognized you. Came and got me," he said simply.

She wiped at her eyes again, looking at her hands.

"He made me feel so stupid," she said angrily, her voice small. "I hadn't even been talking to the agents for half an hour, and he barged in, yelling, swearing," she said. "I mean – do you know anything about this? What did I _do_?"

Gibbs stood up and sat on the table again, looking at her – he still wished he could go give Galvin a piece of his mind. Shannon was really shaken up, and he himself knew how much she disliked Zhukov anyway. He grit his teeth.

"I'm not – I don't know what they're up to, Shannon, but Agent Mitchell's right," he said tersely. "The CIA – they're lone wolves, it's all about the trade to them, the game, the hunt – it's arrogance, it's not for the good of anyone," he said sardonically.

"I don't want to believe that."

"Believe it," he said heavily. "Hell, look at – the Bay of Pigs, Iran Contra, the overthrow of other governments, bloodbaths," he said dully. "Bloodbaths, all of it. Mogadishu, bad intel, out of control, risky ops," he muttered.

He himself didn't know he'd hated black ops so much, until they harassed his wife, until he started to think about how potentially dangerous it all was – entrapment as one thing, some undercover cop tricks, but these identity games, these deep covers – they took it too far, until no one knew who they really were anymore.

He frowned.

"Look, Shannon," he started calmly. "It's probably – nothin' more than now they've got to put him in witness protection or somethin', instead of usin' him, and that costs 'em money – and they lose their connection to her intelligence, whatever Zhukov was gettin' from Svetlana." He shrugged haggardly. "Serves 'em right, playing games like that – worst case scenario, the Russians get 'im before they get him protected."

"Jethro," she said, swallowing hard, "I don't think Anatoly is working for us!" she insisted. "He kept saying Anatoly was supposed to be feeding those files – but there were discs, blueprints," she said, her voice rising edgily. "I don't think he actually defected – "

"What'd they say when you told them that?"

"I couldn't get a word in edgewise!" she exclaimed, worried. "He kept yelling, shooting me down, telling me to shut-up – "

"He _told you to_ _shut-up_?" Gibbs growled.

" _That's_ what you're worried about?"

"S'not the only thing, but I ain't happy about it!" he snapped – not merely unhappy, royally pissed off; some guy disrespecting his wife like that – oooh, if he could get his hands on the bastard, regardless of if they were technically on the same team.

He grit his teeth, and tried to make himself cool down. He folded his arms stiffly, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. He felt for her, being dragged into something clandestine like this – he didn't want to be involved in CIA games, either.

"I've been saying I don't like him, that he gives me the creeps," Shannon said. "They need to look into – into him, maybe he's giving information they don't think he is, maybe he's a threat – or maybe I'm wrong," she trailed off. Her lips trembled. "I just reported what I saw," she whiskered hoarsely.

Gibbs leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees.

"Shannon, in your gut, you think he's a traitor?" he asked.

She looked up at him.

"I don't know what to think about any of this," she confessed. She licked her lips. "But I think he's rotten. And I think she's worse."

Gibbs nodded, studying her intently – there was real worry in her face, real fear in her eyes. Galvin could get mad all he wanted –if Zhukov was truly on their side, and Shannon made it impossible for him to work, that was the CIA's fault for risking it; if he turned out to be a traitor, then she deserved all the damn praise for blowing the whistle inadvertently and putting a stop to serious security leaks.

Shannon turned her palms up, pleading.

"Do you believe me?" she asked.

He didn't hesitate.

"Yes," he said hoarsely, nodding,

She sighed in relief, her shoulders falling.

"What's going to happen?" she asked. "Are people going to die because of me?"

Schooling his features and shaking his head, he stood, leaning back against the table.

"No," he said gruffly. "No, Shannon – it'll get taken care of," he said darkly. "Stuff like this – they have their ways – best thing is, you probably won't have to deal with Zhukov anymore," he finished dryly.

He wished they'd never been told to hire him over the other two options; and once he was out, they'd have to go through the vetting process for a new foreign national investigator all over again, and he'd be damned if he let some scheming undercover CIA guy have an ounce of influence in the matter.

He looked at Shannon heavily, and tilted his head.

"Where's Kelly?" he asked.

"At the Chevaliers', next door," Shannon answered tiredly. "I was going to bring her, but she was having so much fun there," Shannon shivered, imagining if Kelly had been here for this; she doubted Galvin would have restrained himself for a child's sake. "I'm glad I didn't."

Gibbs nodded.

"I'm gonna take you home," he said gruffly.

"What about – "

"They'll understand," he said darkly. "I'll come back, sit in on this meeting with the Ambassador," he growled. "It'll be fine, Shannon," he said firmly. "Galvin overreacted. CIA's got – cleaners – they'll handle it. Whatever it is."

She nodded, and stood up, clutching her purse close to her chest. She pushed her hair back, and then stepped forward, putting one arm around him and pressing her face against his chest for a moment. She took a deep breath, relieved to have him there for a moment, and he returned the hug, running his hand over her spine. When she pulled away, he touched her jaw affectionately, leaning forward to give her a private, comforting kiss.

"Shannon, it's gonna be okay," he promised again, seriously. "We're not even gonna be in Paris much longer," he soothed.

She nodded, her lips parting.

"I never thought I'd say it," she whispered. "But Paris is getting stale."

They weren't scheduled to leave for Ankara until late spring, though, and it was only the beginning of February – and Gibbs knew from the look on her face that she just didn't feel very comforted by him, in the moment – then again, he could understanding; finding out you might have been living with wolves, when you thought they were sheep, was daunting, and Gibbs set his jaw and resolved to make sure he eased her discomfort while this blew over.

* * *

The problem was, it didn't blow over; it got murkier, and more complex, and more frustrating – until it culminated in the sudden death of Anatoly Zhukov – ricin poisoning, a distinctly Soviet method of murder – and yet –

"KGB justice my _ass_ ," Shannon railed, furiously folding clothing as she organized it into a suitcase. "You know- - you _know_ the CIA had him killed – they _finally_ realized – " she broke off, shaking her head. Her lip was bleeding; she'd been chewing on it so much since the body had been found that it was constantly sore and worried.

Gibbs, sorting through the file he'd been given by NCIS for the tenth time – plans, and contingency plans – narrowed his eyes, his brow dark; she was right, most likely; he, too, thought the CIA had given the order to execute Zhukov – it had become clear, recently, that Zhukov wasn't at all a defector with American sympathies – or, perhaps he had been, but the appearance of Svetlana Chernestkaya, had changed that.

"I know they think I'm crazy, Jethro, but there's no way the CIA would have been duped for this long unless one of their own is dirty," she hissed.

He pushed aside his files, nodding – unfortunately, Shannon's cool remarks about that lately had made everyone nervous, and it had a lot to do with their current situation – she didn't know it, but intelligence had proven Svetlana was no mere Soviet-sympathizing girlfriend; she was in fact Zhukov's handler – high up in the KGB, and connected to a vast ring of arms dealers – and not only was she nowhere to be found, she had reason to believe Shannon's involvement was why the CIA had executed Zhukov, and if Shannon kept insisting the the CIA had to have a mole, Svetlana ran the risk of losing her last wild card.

Gibbs, backed by NCIS, had raised hell worrying about his wife's safety, and NCIS, after discussions with the ambassador and the state agent, Katsopolis, had decided it was best to evacuate Shannon and Kelly back to the United States – on home turf, for home advantage.

The file Gibbs had with him was the protection plan, names of everyone involved – the agent that would be taking over once McAlister and Mitchell got them back to Washington, D.C. – Mike Franks, the lead; Dwayne Pride, the junior agent. Gibbs had spoken with both of them on the phone, and Shannon had as well.

"I don't want to go," Shannon said, trying to swallow the fear in her voice. "I _don't_ want to leave you, Jethro, aren't you in danger, too? Why will I be safer in the U.S.?" she demanded.

This had been an ongoing argument for weeks, since the evacuation had been approved. Whether or not he could go was immaterial; he was beholden to the Marine Corps, his job was to help protect the personnel here, too – who, since security was extremely compromised at the moment – could be under threat. The Marines did not send their people away from danger, they threw them towards it fighting; they did not, however, allow dependents to remain in the line of fire.

"'M not happy you're goin' without me," he said tersely. "I want you here, I told 'em – I want you guys in my sights, but – ah, McAlister's right – if the CIA wants you here, that's bad news," he broke off – the goddamn CIA thought it would lure Svetlana out if Shannon stayed, and they could get her – neutralize the threat of Shannon being able to easily identify her – and NCIS said flatly that if the CIA was going to try to use a Marine's family as bait, he was going to make damn sure they were nowhere near the hook.

"She tries to get on a plane, Shannon, they'll book 'er," Gibbs said. "She's got no way of knowin' where you are in the U.S.; the only records she got here are for our stuff here, and in Germany."

Shannon threw things into her suitcase, and she rubbed her forehead, her shoulders falling.

"I know," she mumbled. She closed her eyes tightly, and bit the tip of her thumb. " _This_ isn't what I meant – _God_ , I swear, I must have – brought this on myself, saying I wanted to go back to the U.S. - I didn't mean like this," she said fervently. She looked up, lowering her thumb. "And without knowing when we can come back – I _have_ to take Kelly with me, I'm sorry – "

"Stop apologizing for that," he said sharply. It was a no-brainer – of course Kelly would go with her mother; she was too little to be missing her, and she was too easy a target to be used against Gibbs if she stayed and got caught in the crossfires.

Gibbs got up and came around the bed, reaching out. He sat down next to the suitcase, and he reached for her elbows, clutching them firmly.

"None of this is your fault, Shannon," he said.

She pushed her palm against her chest hard, her cheeks paling.

"I can't shake the feeling that something awful is going to happen," she said hoarsely, her eyes reddening.

He rubbed her elbows a moment, and then pulled her closer gently, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. He ran his hand over her hair, pressing his lips soothingly to her throat, her jaw. She put her hands on his neck and held onto him, burying her head in his shoulder.

"I've been living with this horrible stress hanging over my head," she choked softly. "I want it to be over, I want her gone – why'd they have to kill him, Jethro? Why'd they have to make it personal?"

That was the gist of it, really – tradecraft was tradecraft, spies lived or died by the pistol or the blade – one day's loyalty was another day's treachery, and pieces in the game shifted lightning-quick – hard feelings were rare, personal vendettas usually left for world leaders and public figures – but Shannon had been right; Svetlana was always more to Anatoly than a handler, and he was more than just an operative to her – and the CIA neutralizing him and making no effort to hide why the operation was ended had put Shannon in danger.

It was something Gibbs was still struggling to come to terms with – the severe betrayal by an agency for his own fatherland; every time he saw Galvin in the halls, every time he had to meet with Galvin and Katsopolis, or Galvin and McAlister, he wanted to rip the bastard's head from his shoulders and serve it to Bugsy for breakfast – that man, the gall he had, to make Shannon's life hell – and when Shannon's life was hell, Gibbs' life was hell.

Gibbs stroked her jaw with his thumb, and she pulled back a little, licking her lips.

"Am I supposed to live the rest of my life in fear? What if they don't catch her?" she asked quietly.

"They will," he assured her. "Stuff's gettin' more high tech," he said, eager to assuage her worry. "NCIS, they got some programs – trackin' credit cards, computer mapping stuff," he trailed offs, shrugging a little. "S'all Greek to me. But they'll get 'er, Shannon."

She closed her eyes, gripping his shoulders for strength.

"Kelly doesn't understand why we have to leave," she said sadly. "Poor little thing, I never imagined how hard it would be to explain to her," she hiccupped.

"I'm gonna call you guys every day," Gibbs promised. " _Every_ day," he emphasized.

"This is the only home she's ever known," Shannon said. "And she'll – that house in Alexandria is so big – "

"You'll start makin' it home," Gibbs interrupted firmly. He rubbed her jaw again, wishing he could do more to make her feel better – he felt uneasy about all of this; he wondered how much safer it really was for her to leave – but then, he trusted that it was safer, because he could trust NCIS; he couldn't trust the CIA, and the CIA was in charge here.

He wiped at her tears.

"Shannon," he said, a little pleading. "I hate it when you cry," he muttered.

That got a hoarse laugh out of her.

"I know," she said, reaching up and wiping at her eyes. She put her hands back on his shoulders. "I know," she added, swallowing, bucking herself up some. She took a deep breath. "What would the world be like if we weren't all so afraid of Communists?" she mused huskily. "And to think, the Wall fell years ago."

"Just a show, honey," he muttered astutely. "Political posturing."

She bit her lip, tearfully amused.

"Did you get a vocabulary calendar for Christmas?" she teased softly.

"Turns out I'm pretty smart," he bragged, pulling her closer by her chin for a kiss. She accepted the favor, and pressed herself close to him, arms tightly around his neck, roaming through his hair.

"Smart," she murmured, nodding. "Smart, handsome, everything," she swore. "I love you so much."

He grinned at her, his hand resting against her lower back.

"I love you, Shannon," he said easily.

She nodded, and touched her forehead to his for a moment.

"Well, as long as I know that," she told him bravely, scrunching her nose. "I can survive anything."

She stepped away, returning to packing – with less frenzy, more focus, and a steadier hand. He got up and went to meticulously review the files again – he wanted to memorize every part of the plans, down to dots on i's and crosses on t's. He was glad Kelly was too young for them to have to worry about school, because if she was in school, he'd sure as hell have an agent sitting in a desk next to her.

The bedroom door nosed open, and Bugsy came trotting in, wagging her tail. She hopped up on the bed next to Gibbs, sniffed at him, licked his face, and then crawled over to the suitcase. She sat down in it, let her tongue fall out, and panted happily.

Shannon let out a genuinely laugh.

"Bugsy," she cooed. "Darling, you're not going in the suitcase – I promise, the crate will be a little roomier than that."

She reached forward and kissed the dog affectionately, scratching her velvet ears and resting her cheek on the dog's head. She puckered her lips, and met Gibbs' eyes.

"You sure you can handle being without us _and_ Bugsy?"

"I've lived without Bug before," he said stoically.

Shannon didn't miss his subconscious shortening of the dog's name, but she didn't remark on it. She wondered though, if he ever realized he did it, if he did it on purpose. Truth be told he was going to miss the dog, but Kelly had cried and cried and cried over leaving Bugsy and Daddy, so Gibbs had ordered NCIS to make arrangements for her beloved dog to go with her.

Shannon smirked and tried to coax the German shepherd out of the suitcase, eventually calling on Gibbs to command her away. Bugsy curled up near Gibbs and laid her head on Gibbs' knee, watching his mistress do the packing. Shannon packed haphazardly, without any real attention to detail – she'd organize herself when she and Kelly were secure.

"What's his name, the agent meeting us at Dulles?"

"Franks," Gibbs supplied. "He and Pride are going to escort you to the house, and there will be a constant watch. They're heads of security, but here it says, an Agent – Chris Pacci – is covering patrol detail and information."

"Did you ever get in touch with Leon?" Shannon asked.

"Yeah, he's Agent Afloat right now – on the U.S.S. Truman, in the Gulf," Gibbs answered. "Jackie wants you to call her, as soon as you can."

"I will," Shannon murmured. "I'll go visit her. I'll visit my parents, and your father, too – I'll feel like a sitting _duck_ if I don't, surrounded by men with guns."

"Whatever you do, listen to the agents," Gibbs said warily. "Don't run off, don't – don't take any risks," he added dryly.

She glanced at him, smiled, and then paused, looking back at him. She put down what she was doing, slowly, and then it was her turn to walk around to him, to touch his thigh, catch his eyes – her lips pursed.

"You're scared," she said simply, her lips barely moving. "Jethro."

He took her hand as she reached out for him, and smoothed his fingers over her engagement ring, her wedding ring. He turned her wrist upwards, and kissed her pulse, saying nothing. He wasn't about to tell her anything that would make her worry, and that included that he didn't want her to go, that he was worried, that he was – scared.

He felt eerily like he had the day he'd stepped off the bus in Stillwater, when he was nineteen, and Jenny hadn't been at the bus stop waiting for him – a heavy, cold, hollow and dark feeling, in his stomach. He reached for her, pressing his lips to hers again.

"It's gonna be alright, Shannon," he told her gruffly.

"Oooh," she whispered, her eyes on his. "We're not getting any sleep tonight."

Their flight was right before noon the next day – she had to pack, she had to say goodbye to him properly—and she'd never calm down. She wondered if he felt –

"Uh, sorry to interrupt."

The vocal interruption came with a knock on the door, and Agent Mitchell was standing there, looking sheepish – and he was holding Kelly.

"Found this wanderin' around," he said.

Mitchell had been downstairs, keeping vigil; Kelly had probably ventured down thinking her parents were still up. With sleepy eyes and messy hair, she blinked at them, and then twisted in Mitchell's arms, and reached out.

"Bugsy left," she said forlornly.

Shannon hurried over.

"I'm sorry, Kurt – leave her here, she's okay," she said, flushing.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he said easily, smirking. "I got a four-year-old. Looks just like his Mama, and won't go to bed unless I say goodnight," he said proudly.

"Oh, what's your son's name?" Shannon asked warmly.

"Luis, Ma'am," Mitchell said.

Shannon kissed Kelly's cheek.

"I'm sorry we're keeping you from him," she murmured.

"S'alright, he and his mama are visiting New York, right now," Mitchell said. "Goodnight, now. See you tomorrow morning. Night, Miss Kelly."

Kelly gave him a little wave, and Shannon shut the Master bedroom door snugly, carrying Kelly over to the bed.

"You found us," she sang softly. "Poor Kelly-Belle, jealous of Bugsy," she teased.

Kelly crawled over Gibbs and snuggled into his lap, reaching out to pat the dog.

"Bugsy," she said contently. She puckered her lips sweetly. Gibbs combed the knots from her hair with his fingers.

"You ready to see America, Kelly?" he asked. "Mama's gonna take you to the zoo, and the Smithsonian with all the pretty dresses," he listed.

Kelly looked up at him. She reached for his face.

"No, thank you," she said sweetly. "No bye-bye, Daddy. No, you come," she requested.

He cupped her chin gently, and gave her a strong smile.

"Daddy has to work," he said seriously. He moved his face closer to hers. "You know I'd rather have tea parties with you," he confided quietly.

She giggled.

"Tea-with-sugar," she said.

"Hmm, black coffee," he disagreed.

She made a face, and giggled, and Shannon smiled at them. She stood a moment, and then climbed on the bed, easily adjusting Bugsy and situating herself next to Gibbs – she really wasn't going to be able to sleep; the packing could wait – this was her last night in Paris, her last night with Gibbs until the situation cleared up – what did it matter if she took the right pair of socks?

"You'll have to take care of Mommy," Gibbs said seriously, pretending it was a secret. "Keep her safe. Don't drive her crazy." He tickled Kelly's ribs. "You got that, Dolphin?"

Kelly squeaked, cutely imitating the animal she was nicknamed for. Gibbs squeaked back at conversationally, and Shannon covered her mouth, amused.

"I really should videotape this," she snorted. "When you retire from the Marines – ooh, or if you ever commission, I'll show it at the party – 'Gunnery Sergeant Speaks Dolphin,'" she teased.

Seriously, he glared at her, and squeaked pointedly.

"I think that was a four-letter-word," she said primly, bending over Kelly. "I'll take care of you, you take care of me," she sang. "But who's gonna take care of Daddy?"

Kelly twisted, and stood in his lap, clasping her arms around his neck.

"Me," she said fiercely, touching her nose cutely to his neck. "I watch you," she told him. "I protect you."

He grinned.

"You? You'll be in America."

Kelly put her hand on his heart insistently.

"Here," she told him, patting him promisingly. "I stay here, Mommy say."

Gibbs put his hand over hers, and held it there against his chest He nodded his head, his lips turning up contently.

"I'll keep you there," he promised. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead protectively. "'M gonna miss you and Mommy," he told her solemnly. "I got somethin' for you," he said.

"Present?" Kelly squealed.

Gibbs laughed quietly, and opened a drawer next to the bed. He pulled out his most current dog tags, and showed them to Kelly. He then placed them gingerly around her neck, and pressed them close to her heart. He didn't say anything, and Shannon reached out and rubbed his thigh, soothed by the silent gesture.

"Daddy," Kelly said, touching his cheek. "I sleep with you and Mommy," she said hopefully.

Gibbs turned, and shared look with Shannon – he was a little torn; on one hand, it would be his last night with his wife – physically – until he could get away to visit the States, or until the threat was gone; on the other, he'd miss his little girl just as much, and he had a hard time daring to say no when he was about to send her away.

Shannon smiled at him, pursing her lips. She gave him a knowing, wry look.

"She can stay," she said. She shifted, and moved closer, kissing his jaw. "When she falls asleep, we can use the shower," she whispered, smirking against his ear.

He turned and kissed her, slipping his arm around her.

"You can sleep with Mommy and Daddy," He told Kelly. He gave her a playfully stern look. "But no snoring, you hear me? Not cute, even when little dolphins do it."

Kelly giggled, and squeaked at him. He ruffled her hair, content when she snuggled up to him, and then reached out to play with Bugsy's ears. Gibbs ran his hand over Shannon's shoulder, with no intention of sleeping – he felt a sense of dread at letting them go; it didn't matter what options he'd been given, lately, he just felt it was all – wrong; off.

"Shannon," he said gruffly, turning his head to her brow. "You sure you don't want me to come to the airport?"

She shook her head, swallowing hard.

"Nah," she said thickly, trying to make her voice light. "Kelly would cry. We'll just – no, just go to work. It will draw less attention, anyway."

She thought it would be too hard to make Kelly watch him stand there was they walked away, and she was better with goodbyes that weren't in notoriously final places.

Shannon closed her eyes lightly, listening to Gibbs breathe – she felt resigned, resolved, and at ease, but she also felt panicked and chaotic – like everything was slipping through her fingers; she regretted ever wishing she was back stateside, she regretted ever saying a damn thing about Anatoly, patriotism be damned – and in all this confusion, and the small peace of her family, she wondered –

"Jethro?" she ventured.

"Hmm?" he grunted.

"Is this what it feels like - when you're about to deploy?"

He thought about it a moment, tried to put himself in her shoes – leaving, unsure of what was going to happen, facing something somewhat unfamiliar. He nodded, stroking her hair, kissing her temple lightly.

"Somethin' like it," he agreed.

Bugsy lifted her head and wagged her tail, giving Kelly a smart lick on the mouth, and when Kelly squealed, Gibbs smirked, and turned his head to admire Kelly – blue eyes, Shannon's nose, mussed up hair – and Shannon, too; they meant everything to him, everything he thought he'd never have after Jenny had taken Natalie.

Shannon flushed under his gaze, under his unspoken affection. She reached out to tickle Kelly's ribs lightly, somehow relieved – somehow, relieved that for a second, she could empathize with everything he must have felt before Kuwait, before Baghdad – she felt that would only make them stronger, when this was all over.

* * *

With the day dawned and goodbyes said, Gibbs had little to do at the embassy beyond waiting for the phone call that would confirm wheels were up and Shannon and Kelly were en route to Dulles International Airport. The thing was, his beeper went off earlier than he expected, causing him to assume only that something had been forgotten; had answered, and expected to hear Shannon, from the car phone.

It was unimaginably terrible that a simple sentence could change his life forever – and simple it had been, spoken in McAlister's gravelly, heavy voice.

" _Gibbs. There's been an accident."_

He had a brief – oh, the _briefest_ – moment of panic before his crashed into Marine-mode, his muscles stiff, his face blank, everything about him – mission-oriented; ready for combat. He remembered asking which hospital.

He remembered McAlister saying there wouldn't be any hospitals needed.

He remembered hanging up the phone. He remembered giving command to Katsopolis with barely a word.

He did not remember the drive to the scene.

The scene on the Rue de Rome, he remembered for the rest of his life.

Sirens – that unbearable screeching of European sirens that always brought to mind the Gestapo in films about World War 2 – flashing lights, smoke, glass crunching under his feet – his car, parked sideways, abandoned, as close as he could get – all that, he remembered – the sights, sounds, smells – he remembered seeing, really seeing, he remembered loudly hearing it all, when McAlister jogged up to him and caught him.

"Gunny," he said, forcing Gibbs back, his hands on his shoulders.

McAlister smelled like gasoline, like smoke; he looked like hell. He pushed Gibbs back with more strength than it looked like he had.

"Gunny, stop – stop," he barked.

Gibbs stood stock-still, his eyes over the agent's shoulder, fixed on the mauled metal, the tangled and brutalized vehicles – he felt a choke in his throat, an awful shudder in his gut, in his hands, his chest. He grabbed McAlister.

"Are they okay?" he managed.

McAlister was standing there, doing nothing but holding him back; Gibbs realized he had blood on him – blood on his shirt, his trousers, in the five o'clock shadow lining his jaw – McAlister had been following, in an attempt to prevent Mitchell from being followed.

Gibbs started to push past McAlister.

McAlister grabbed him, grabbed his chin, and pushed him back.

"No," he said. "No," he ordered. "Gunny," he growled. "They're both dead, Gunny."

Gibbs tried to push past him again; this time McAlister was violent, and he threw Gibbs backwards sending him stumbling. Gibbs' teeth gritted in pain that was anything but physical, and he looked ready to swing, but McAlister advanced on him, shaking his head, a harsh warning in his dark eyes.

"You don't need to see it," he warned fiercely.

It was protective. His words were protective; his treatment was protective. Gibbs saw it for exactly what it was. He was saying there was gore, carnage; destruction; he was stretching out an arm to blind Gibbs from the grittier truth of the accident – no survivors; not one.

Gibbs spun away, his eyes bulging. He bent over, his head spinning – he felt the urge to vomit, but nothing would come up. He stood there, hands on his knees, mouth open, staring at the ground. He closed his eyes so tightly he saw spots, and when he opened them, McAlister was leaning over him, pushing him down to sit on the curb.

A medic walked past. Walked. He didn't run. He walked.

Gibbs watched him, silent. He started to stand, and McAlister pushed him down again, crouching. He shook his head.

"Don't put yourself through it," he said hoarsely. He shook his head again. "Gunny, there's nothin' you can do."

Gibbs grabbed his wrist.

"What happened?" he rasped. " _What happened?_ "

It couldn't be – it _couldn't_ be just an accident, that was too cruel – it had to be – "

"Suicide mission," McAlister grunted.

Gibbs looked up, blinking. It was cold, icy and wet. February. The end of February. He blinked, saw two medics pulling a body from the wreckage, from tangled metal; flash of blonde hair – flash of a red fur coat.

"Her," he croaked.

McAlister looked.

"She – barreled at us," he said, a very careful, clipped voice, wary of Gibbs. "Mitchell couldn't have seen it coming. She drove her motorcycle into the car," he explained.

Gibbs' eyes were on her body, being dragged, laid out – dead, cold; what kind of hatred, what kind of passion, must she have felt? He turned his head, hanging it down. He shook it.

"It killed her?" he asked.

He wanted to hear it, to make sure.

"Sv—Sv—her?" he stuttered.

McAlister hesitated.

"She survived the impact," he said finally.

Gibbs's face was sharp, he started forward, his hands flexing – as if around her neck. McAlister caught his hands gently, a brotherly look, a fierce look.

"She's dead anyway, Gibbs," he said firmly. "Took her out as she was crawling from the rubble. Double tap. Between the eyes."

Gibbs' mouth moved silently. He looked over at the body again, squinting, as if he'd be able to see the bullet holes from here. He looked at McAlister, almost uncomprehending, and then with blazing anger, rage – his hands itched, ached, throbbed for a weapon, angry he couldn't do it himself, angry he couldn't see her –

"You shoulda left her to me," he rasped harshly.

"That's not your job, Gunny," McAlister said.

" _Your job was to keep them safe!"_ Gibbs roared, suddenly surprising himself with the unexpected volume.

How could she – how could she have survived impact if they – they couldn't be gone; McAlister had to be wrong – both of them? It wasn't – it wasn't possible; life didn't work like that – life couldn't possibly be that wretched, that revoltingly unfair –

Gibbs recoiled, hands over his face, pressing into his eyes – he wanted to be sick, but he couldn't; he wanted to scream until he was hoarse, but he was being watched, suffocated. He shook his head violently.

"I should've gone with 'em," he moaned. "I should've gone with 'em to the airport," he growled, berating himself.

He should have heeded his gut as they left; he never should have put their lives in anyone's hands but his own.

"Wouldn't have done any good, Gunny," McAlister said stubbornly. "Just would've been your life, too."

Gibbs looked at him, raw, stark grief on his face, his eyes wide, the lines on his forehead deep and strained – shock, pure shock, and confusion.

"What's my life now?" he asked.

His voice was hoarse, barely there, uncomprehending – that was it, though; if he'd gone with them, he'd be dead, too. None of this would matter. Nothing would matter. If he were there with them in that wreck, he'd be okay. He wouldn't feel like this. He would have to live with – to face the –

The Future. A future without them – years and years of black and dark emptiness, with no one by his side, without his little girl, without his wife, without the only two things in the world he would have gone to hell and back for.

There was a strangled noise, a loud bark, and Gibbs flinched away from the sound. He turned back, and it – he blinked, still shocked – Bugsy, limping away from a medic, _Bugsy_ , limping painfully, whining piteously as she came towards Gibbs, her tail swinging. He lifted his head, and she came to collapse at his feet, panting, breathing, and laying her head in his lap.

She whined, a low, continuous keen, licking his hand. He rested it on her, his eyes fixed on her – the blood covering her snout, blood clinging to her tail, her fur, covering her stomach. He reached out to touch her – she let out a mighty yelp when he brushed her leg; broken, he guessed – but other than a cut on her snout, a gash on her flank, he found no reason for the blood on her stomach.

The medic who'd freed Bugsy from whatever was keeping her said something to McAlister – he folded his arms, and spoke in lilting, careful English.

"Chien," he said, and then swallowed. "Your dog," he said thickly. He seemed to struggle, and wiped his brow. "Your dog, he try to stop bleeding," he said heavily. "He—she—I do not see, what kind of dog," he explained. "It try to stop bleeding, of little girl. It stay with her. I not see thing like it – "

McAlister waved the man away tensely – Gibbs didn't need to hear it; McAlister had seen it. Bugsy, getting out from the wreck while McAlister approached, trying to bellow for an ambulance, for help; Bugsy recognizing that Shannon was a lost cause, dead on impact – clean, though, for Gibbs' sake; a head injury – Bugsy, finding Kelly, laying over her, licking at her wounds.

It had been remarkable; the animal tourniquet – the desperate attempt to save her friend - -but it wasn't something Gibbs needed to hear.

McAlister wondered if he'd reject the dog, hate it for surviving.

Gibbs didn't. He put his arm over the animal; he stroked her snout.

"Did you keep her safe, Bugsy?" he asked, almost as if McAlister wasn't there.

Staring at the dog, he felt a fierce rush of love for the animal – Bugsy had been through everything; somehow, Bugsy had come through this, and Bugsy had tried to pull the others through, too.

McAlister started to stand.

"I've got to take you back to the embassy, Gibbs," he said dully. "I got – I got to call Mitchell's wife, too, his kid. Mitchell's dead," McAlister said, almost to himself.

Mitchell was just a kid. It had all happened so fast – the whole car, dead at the scene before help had even arrived; McAlister had been helpless, there with Bugsy, both of them trying to do what they could for Kelly; but she hadn't been able to hang on.

Gibbs looked up at him, squinting.

"They're dead?" he asked, as if he didn't believe it. He shook his head. "McAlister…I saw 'em this morning. I saw 'em…" he trailed off.

He looked back over at the unbearable wreckage – Svetlana's body, irreverently laying out, slaughtered by her own desperation – the price of love when it entangled with dangerous games of espionage, and his family, his innocent wife, his three-year-old-child, paying the price for the sins of reckless men, their lives over because of pretty ideological arguments, iron curtains and blood red flags.

He didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it.

This was his family. His _everything_.

His hand tightened in Bugsy's fur, taking incredibly comfort in the dog – he seized on to the idea of Bugsy's loyalty, Bugsy's attempts to protect – he thought –if Bugsy was there, if Bugsy had been close – maybe Kelly hadn't been scared – oh, God, he thought – God, they must have been, so _scared_ –

He stood up abruptly.

"I want to see 'em," he managed, hoarsely.

McAlister just stared at him.

"You don't, Gunny," he sad flatly. "Let 'em clean 'em up. Just – just bury 'em," he said, a little callous, a little harsh – but these men were both battle born and bred, they understood the world, and Gibbs wouldn't want to be handled with kid gloves.

He stepped forward.

"Do they look like themselves?" he asked aggressively. "Do they – c'mon, McAlister," he said, his voice cracking. "Will I recognize them?"

McAlister nodded.

"Yes," he said heavily.

"Then let me – "

McAlister shoved him back harshly.

"I'm warning you, Jethro," he said sharply. "No man needs to see his wife and daughter dead on the streets. No man – no one. You don't come back from that," he growled. "You listen to me, Gunny. You listen. You'll never unsee it."

Gibbs believed that. He did. He swallowed hard - -but something dark in him, something sinister, torturous – he needed to see, to make it _real_ , to understand. He put his hands in his pockets, he bowed his head, and when he looked back up, McAlister sensed there was no keeping him back, no holding him. He lifted his palms, washing his hands of it – he had no experience with this; they were both soldiers, but McAlister had never experienced loss like this.

He didn't know what to do.

Gibbs moved past him – Bugsy limped at his heels, ever faithful, refusing to leave the man she recognized, the man who'd saved her when she was going to be sent away. He reached down, groping for Bugsy, his hand finding her fur, holding onto her. He was past Svetlana, past the mangled mass of motorcycle, when a medic stopped him.

He spoke in French.

Gibbs shook his head.

"English," he said hoarsely.

The man nodded, he swallowed.

"Ah, I ask – you are family?"

Gibbs nodded.

"My wife," he said. He tried to find a word. He couldn't. "My wife. My daughter. _Fille_." That word he knew. " _Fille_." He repeated. His lips turned up slightly. " _Dauphine_ ," he said.

The French man looked confused, and Gibbs expected him to. It was an inside joke. A joke that no one would ever know, ever understand. Gibbs nodded his head past the medic, and the man cleared his throat again. He shook his head.

"No life," he said.

It was so harsh, the way he said it, a clear struggle with the language, and Gibbs nodded, to show he understood.

"I want to see them," he said.

He tried; he tried his best:

" _Je voudrais_ ," he said, his voice gravelly. He felt uncomfortable. "Je voudrais…" he pointed to his eyes. "See."

"Ah."

The medic looked uncertain, but turned, and beckoned. Gibbs stepped on glass, pushed aside metal, suffocated on the smell of it all; Bugsy continued her soft whine, soft lament. The medic pointed – black sheets over bodies, three; Mitchell, Shannon, Kelly – the smallest was the worst; small, gut wrenching – so young.

The medic stopped, but Gibbs kept moving. He sat on the curb slowly, near them; he reached out; he pulled his hand back. He put his head in his hands – McAlister was right; he'd never unsee it – he'd never be able to go back, he'd never again have just their faces in his mind; if he looked now, he'd always see this – he'd always see blood, gore; he'd see them in death, and he didn't want to.

The black sheets over the bodies were enough; it was truth enough. He couldn't look.

Bugsy limped past him; she lay between them. She laid her head on the middle of a black sheet; she closed her eyes heavily, whining. Gibbs watched her – he'd never though an animal could feel pain like that, understand pain like that – but it seemed she did; she was the only one. She'd forever be the only one.

Gibbs sat there for a long time, until a hand touched his shoulder. There was a woman looking at him, her eyes unreadable.

"English?" she asked, in very _clear_ English, though with a French accent.

Gibbs just nodded.

"We have to take them," she said quietly. She gestured. "The accident. We have to clean up."

Without saying anything else, she moved around him, and she crouched beside the bodies. Gibbs turned and saw her remove her jacket, saw her wrapping it, and then she turned. She crouched in front of him, and with surprising confidence, she placed the small bundle in his arms, resting her hand over it.

"You should not look," she said quietly, raising her eyes to his. "You hold. You say goodbye."

Gibbs said nothing. He looked down; he pulled his arms towards him, close. The weight in his warms felt familiar – comfortable, easy to hold; three-years-old – four, in two months, if – no, eternally three-years-old. He saw this wreckage and he knew – if Shannon hadn't made it, this tiny, fragile child in his arms had no chance.

He closed his eyes; he lifted her towards his face, forehead resting somewhere near her, where he knew her face would be under the cover and the coat, maybe peaceful, maybe something of nightmares; he didn't know, but holding her was good, memorizing that weight in his arms, wondering if he'd ever be able to accept that he'd never hold her again.

He turned his cheek, resting it against the bundle – he looked at Bugsy, whining, her poor leg probably aching her, bothering her – and he could find no comfort, no solace, nothing.

McAlister was there, suddenly; McAlister was taking Kelly, taking his arm, pulling him up.

"Come on, Gunny," he said heavily; exhausted. He deliberately didn't look at his partner, at Mitchell there, covered, next to Shannon. "Back to the Embassy. Let's go."

Gibbs stood still, among he wreckage. He stood still.

He lifted his head, finally, and he gave a soft, sharp whistle. Bugsy got up, limping, and she came to him, her ears low, and her tail low, and she pressed to his side. He put his hand on the dog, and he watched, expressionless, blank, as the medics did their jobs, carefully handling bodies, avoiding his gaze.

He opened his mouth.

"Both of them," he said, the words tumbling out. " _Both_ of them…"

But even as he said it – he was struck with the paralyzing thought that if given the choice, he couldn't choose – he was – beyond devastated; he had surpassed any sort of emotion that he could define, or really feel, but if he'd lost only Kelly, and Shannon had to feel like this, he couldn't bear it – and if he'd lost only Shannon, and he had to be everything for Kelly, he couldn't imagine it – it wasn't that he wished fate had at least left him one; it was that he wished it was all or nothing.

Shannon and Kelly, alive; or him, dead.

He turned his back, his hand on Bugsy, following McAlister mechanically – out of the wreckage, past Svetlana's body, to the black, only slightly banged up car that McAlister had rammed to a stop when the accident occurred. He got the dog into the car, and he turned to McAlister.

"She needs a vet," he said hoarsely, heavily.

McAlister nodded, taking Gibbs' shoulder. Gibbs took no notice of the gesture; he wasn't sure he even felt it – for now, he had to feel nothing; it was only safe to feel nothing. If he continued to let himself feel what he'd been experiencing moments ago, he wouldn't survive.

Suddenly, loudly, her words from last night echoed in his hears –

' _As long as I know that, I can survive anything.'_

She'd said that, when he said he loved her. But he was starting to think – that his loving anything was bad for the soul.

* * *

It was an immeasurably cruel thing that they were laid to rest in Stillwater, but when the time came to bury them, he had nowhere else to go. Paris wasn't their home, the house in Alexandria had never been – would never become— the home they wanted it to be. Her parents were in Stillwater, her connections were there; and ultimately, it was Shannon's parents who made the arrangements.

It was agonizing, every second of it; agonizing.

He felt animosity from Shannon's mother, as if somehow, this was his fault – as if he'd done it on purpose, taken her daughter away, taken her granddaughter away, and had the nerve to let them die when she barely ever saw them. He got nothing from Shannon's father – an awkward hug, an unbearable silence; another man who had no idea what to say, what to do. The only thing they shared was the grief of losing a child, and when Mackenzie Fielding couldn't speak, Gibbs understood.

It was pain beyond anything he'd imagined he could ever feel.

Amidst the people who attended, the people he barely knew – Shannon's relatives, Stillwater ilk, wealthier, county folks – he felt so alone, with no one here he cared about, except the two coffins they were putting in the ground; with no one here to ease the burden – the only person who stood with him, sat with him, was his father – his father, with a woman on his arm; Jackson Gibbs and Deborah Henry.

Gibbs had hardly anything to do with the ceremony, with plans – it had all been Shannon's mother, insistent on a religious ceremony, on the minister, on choosing clothing for the girls – Gibbs stood vigil over them, blocking out the sounds of murmurs, whispers of condolence, hushed gossip, and in his hand he clutched the dog tags he'd given Kelly, and the wedding rings they'd taken off of Shannon.

He held them in his hand tightly, clinging to them – the dog tags hadn't protected Kelly; the rings hadn't kept Shannon with him forever, as promised.

He hated it. He hated that in the worst moments of his life, he had to come back here; he had to bury them _here_.

Here – where he'd seen Betsy Carmichael, all grown up, looking tired and abused as she dragged one of her children by his ear into a shop, shouting at him; where he saw that Maggie Hart had taken over the flower shop from her mother; Old Farmer Crenshaw had died, and his barn was falling apart, Melissa Fielding was still a bitch, and Deborah Henry still owned the dress shop – here, Stillwater; the only slight relief was that no one, not a single person, had dared ask him about Natalie.

These small town rubberneckers had enough sense not to plague him with that, though he was sure they were fascinated by this – the hometown legend, reappearing mysteriously to lay to rest a family they'd never heard of.

Gibbs in the middle of it, in a silent, sanitized bubble of his own making, just trying to get through – sleeping in his old bedroom, suffocating through every moment.

Joanne tried to coax him away, her arm on his, but stiffly, he shook her off; he would stay. He would stay until it was dark; he would stay as long as he could. She sighed, said something he didn't hear.

"You go on now, Joanne," Jackson Gibbs said.

"Jo," Mackenzie said gruffly. "Jo, leave 'im be."

Gibbs felt, rather than saw, them leave, and he put his hands in his pockets, still clutching the ring, the dog tags. He felt out of place in his suit; he should have worn his dress blues. Shannon would have liked that. Kelly – Kelly would have liked that.

He swallowed, his eyes on the graves – open, fresh, raw; he'd never get used to the size of that coffin – too little. The smallest he'd ever seen. It brought memories bubbling to his mind – Shannon, watching the film, _My Girl_ – _'he told her that coffin was for short people, Jethro, how awful – he didn't want her to know children die – '_

Gibbs hadn't wanted to know children could die, either. It didn't matter that he'd seen a child shot dead in Kuwait, it didn't matter that he knew these things happened – abstract or warrior-minded acceptance was nothing compared to the reality of it happening, before his eyes, of it being a true part of his own life.

Jackson Gibbs lingered, watching his son. Carefully, he drew up.

"Leroy," he began. "Leroy, Debbie's made – she's got lunch, for you."

Gibbs' eyes merely flickered from his father to the woman on his arm. He couldn't smile, so he hoped his face softened just a little. He bore no truly evil feelings towards Debbie, except that he remembered, all those years ago, she seemed to relish telling him Jenny was gone just a little too much.

He shook his head.

"Leroy, you can't go on not eatin', you can't just quit," Jackson started.

Debbie Henry, for once in her life, did not thrive on the drama.

" _Hush_ ," she said sharply. She gripped his arm. "You can eat it, then," she said curtly to Jackson, pulling on him.

Jackson looked stubborn, ready to confront Gibbs some more, but he eventually allowed himself to be pulled away, and it appeared he stopped, and began an argument with Deborah. Gibbs turned his back to him. He trudged around the open graves, and his hand fell to his side.

Gently, Bugsy licked his hand – Bugsy drew as much attention as Gibbs himself did; everyone seemed to wonder why this dog, this dog that had a curious limp, was never allowed out of Leroy's sight. Gibbs felt no need to tell them. Gibbs just wanted Bugsy there.

He walked around, his hand resting on the smooth, lacquered polish of the coffins; he silently tore flowers from the arrangements, threw them on top, rubbed their petals in his fingers until they disintegrated. At a respectful distance, undertakers waited to finish their job, and he realized abruptly that – much like he'd been unable to look at them, after the accident, and even after the proper cosmetics were addressed at the funeral home, he could not watch them be covered with dirt; he couldn't listen to the sound.

For the first time since Kuwait, he felt a sharp, youthful longing for his mother; she would know what to do – she would know what to say.

With no other recourse, to his mother is where he retreated – to her grave. It was flowerless; he doubted his father visited – but it was exactly where he remembered it, with the tree he'd retreated to with Natalie not far off.

He stood before it, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if Jasper Shepard was buried somewhere nearby.

Bugsy nudged his hand and whined, searching for affection. Gibbs stroked her snout comfortingly, glad she was there.

"Had to be you, Ma," he said finally, his voice gruff.

He'd always felt that way – why did it have to be _her_? Why were the only people, the _few_ people, that mattered to him taken away? He'd built a life with Shannon, everything he'd wanted. It was – idyllic; it was perfect.

This didn't – this wasn't fair; this didn't make sense.

He'd always done – everything right, as best as he could. He looked at his mother's grave, his back to where they buried his wife and daughter, and he thought – _I can't still be paying for a mistake I made in nineteen eighty-four._ This couldn't be some sort of – divine retribution for deciding to let Jenny have Natalie, for giving up – and with that, with that he'd – he'd tried so hard –

"Leroy."

He didn't answer his father's gruff words; he hadn't heard him come up, and that angered him; his senses and instincts were off. At the sound, Bugsy wagged her tail, her tongue falling out lazily. She perked her ears up at Jackson as he approached.

"Hey there, girl," Jackson greeted, rubbing the dog's head. He was silent a moment, standing next to his son. "Leroy, you can't stay out here forever."

Gibbs said nothing.

"You got to let me know what I can do."

Gibbs lifted his shoulders, silent. If there was anything that could be done, he would have already done it. He would have stayed a sniper. He would have died somewhere, if it meant they would be safe; be alright.

"'M tryin' to be here for you, son," Jackson said, frustrated.

Gibbs finally turned to him, lifting his head coldly.

"By bringin' a date to their funeral?" he asked. Low, icy tones; animosity – he felt the same things he'd felt when his mother died, nothing but distaste for his father's presence; a need to escape.

Jackson cleared his throat.

"Debbie's a part of my life, Leroy," he said coolly. He paused. "The world didn't just stop, when you left."

Gibbs turned away. He hadn't expected it to. He just didn't think Debbie Henry had any place at the funeral. She'd made a few dresses for Shannon, a lifetime ago – that didn't mean a damn thing. She'd come to gawk. She'd come as a date.

He let Bugsy lick his hand comfortingly.

"I know how much they meant to you," Jackson said. He reached out, and rested hand on Gibbs' shoulder – and it was that touch that made him snap; made in unbearable.

He spun around on his heel, all but flinging his father's hand off of him.

"You don't have a damn clue," he lashed out hoarsely, "how much they _mean_ to me."

He stood there, seething, his grief bubbling over, blue eyes steely and dark, looming over his father; for once he didn't feel chastised, he felt like the bigger man, and he relished it.

"They were always there for me. _Shannon_ was always there for me. They were my future _. They were all I had."_

Bugsy pressed close to him, distressed, and he grit his teeth, almost baring them to keep back to cry of anguish that threatened to escape his throat. It took every muscle he had to resist collapsing, begging for them back on his knees.

"They _aren't_ all you had," Jackson said, though he said it as warily as possible. He inclined his head. "You got another daughter out there, son."

Gibbs' eyes flashed, and he moved forward, menacing. His hands shot forward as if he'd grab Jackson, and then they fell back, and he lifted one, running it over his jaw so roughly he thought he'd tear off his own skin.

"You – you son of a bitch," he swore. "Don't – _don't_ bring her up now. I don't want to hear about her. About _them_ ," he snarled.

His reluctance came not from a place of hatred, but from a place of deep hurt – adding on his issues with Natalie now, on top of this – it was going to break him, shatter him like glass. Didn't anyone understand that? Didn't anyone understand how cruel this was? He'd lost the life he planned with one daughter; he lost his other altogether.

He turned his back angrily, still rubbing his face.

"She came back, you know," Jackson said tiredly. "Jenny. For Jasper's funeral. She came back."

Gibbs blinked, and closed his eyes tightly. He shook his head – he had always wondered – but no; he didn't care. What did it matter, that Jenny had come back – what did that mean to him? It was irrelevant to his life now. It wasn't some divine sign that they'd both been back here only in darkness, only to bury people they loved. It was just a black coincidence; a sinister trick of fate.

"I told her about them, Shannon and Kelly. She was surprised," Jackson narrated. He sighed. "You don't have _any_ contact at all, Leroy," he said sadly. "The look on Jenny's face – "

Gibbs turned to him again, approaching slowly. He stood before him, his face close, and his eyes narrow; unreadable.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked harshly.

"I thought at least, Shannon would have wanted Natalie to know she had a – "

" _Sister_?" hissed Gibbs. The word trembled on his lips. "She doesn't," he said coldly. He gestured behind him. "She's gone." He swallowed hard, imagining Jen gossiping, talking to his father, and anger flared hot. "What right did she have to know about my life?" he shouted, pointing to himself. "She didn't want me. They wanted me. _They_ were my life. _Mine_ ," he bellowed. "I'll be damned if Jenny deserves even a piece of civility from me!"

Jackson stared back at him stubbornly.

"Natalie never did anything to you," he said curtly. "Don't you think, Leroy, if you reached out now, if you – it might help you – help you deal with this – "

"Help me _forget_?" he hissed violently, stepping forward so that Jackson stepped back. "You think for a _second_ Natalie could make this go away, Natalie could take the place of K- of K – Kelly? I don't even know Natalie!"

The worst of it was – before all this, with Shannon; before this disaster had rained down, he'd taken more of a step than usual – last Christmas, without speaking to his wife about it, he'd put their phone number in Paris in the Christmas card he sent; he'd signed it – Daddy, Kelly, and Shannon – and he'd mailed it – without a word, because he'd rather her not know if nothing happened –

And nothing did; no response, no outreach – either Jenny had disallowed it, or Natalie wasn't interested, and bringing that to mind, remembering that, while he stood in the cemetery where they were taking away everything he had, he was enraged – he was lost, utterly lost.

"That's not what I mean," Jackson said heavily. "I know no one can replace Kelly. Or Shannon." He was quiet for a while. "I just don't want you to lose it, Leroy," he said, and he hoped his son understood that he was genuinely concerned – and he knew, inherently, that no matter what he said, Leroy's anger would be taken out on him. For now, he could handle that. "I'm not sayin' you have a replacement family out there. I'm sayin' you need to anchor yourself to something."

Gibbs just stared at him, uncomprehending –he didn't understand how magnificently unhelpful he was being – Natalie couldn't fix this; Natalie had nothing to do with this – and under no circumstances would he ever think of Natalie as some kind of crutch for his distress, some anti-depressant, some imitation. She was her own person.

She was his daughter, but she was long gone; she barely existed – she wasn't part of his world, and that was something he had come to terms with again and again – this loss was wholly new; this loss consumed him – Shannon and Kelly were all he could think about.

Jackson wasn't quite cowed, though. He reached into his pocket.

"She left this upstairs, when she was here," he said, taking Gibbs' hand and forcefully shoving whatever it was into his grasp. "She was snooping. Behind her mother's back." Jackson paused. "Look, Leroy…you're hurtin'. You're in a lot of pain. I reckon – I don't know if any man can come back from this. But if it helps, even a little, I want you to know that that child wants to know who you are, someday."

He cleared his throat, and he put another thing in Gibbs' hand.

"That's the last address I have for her. Phone number, too."

He took a deep breath, and bent to say a quick goodbye to Bugsy.

"You shouldn't go back," he said, putting in his final word. "It won't do you any good. You should – wash out."

Coldly, Gibbs turned to his father, radically, suddenly, and fiercely offended by the suggestion – leave the Marines? The Marines had been there when his mother died; the Marines had been all he had when Jenny left – the Marines were where he would flee now, for now.

Gibbs said nothing, and Jackson turned to go, trudging away – Gibbs didn't even watch him leave, didn't bother. He turned back to his mother's tombstone, and he looked at it for a long time, holding whatever his father had given him in his hand without looking.

The Marines were again, all he had. He would go back. He would serve; he would do his duty – but he didn't want to. The leave he'd taken – to fly home, to bury his girls – was painful; he hated all the empty hours to think; the thought of going back to that house he'd lived in with them, those streets he'd walked with them – the streets they died on – of working in that embassy, where the CIA had operated with such reckless abandon that at a laid back diplomatic post in the stable west, his family had been murdered – the thought of going back to that was damn near impossible.

For the moment; he had no choice. When autumn came, he could ask for retirement – but what would he do then?

NCIS, Leon Vance said, over his wife's crying as Gibbs' told them; NCIS, McAlister said, would have a place for him – NCIS, Kurt Mitchell's wife had said tearfully, while he sat next to McAlister and told her, and her son, that Kurt had died trying to save Shannon and Kelly.

Maybe it was time for something different. Maybe the Marines had chewed him up; maybe the Corps was spitting him out. He had turned to the Marines when his mother died, he had clung to the Marines when Jenny left him – but the Marines had taken him to Paris, the Marines had taken Joan Matteson's life – in the Marines, he'd always be that Gunny whose family had been killed in that tragic, tragic French affair.

He turned, and walked away; away from the grave to the tree he'd sat beneath years ago, the year his mother died; when he'd made himself small, and invisible, and he'd held Natalie as tightly as he could, as if she were the only thing that put any brightness into his life. There he sat now, alone; Bugsy sat next to him, looking at him with her soft, loyal brown eyes.

She gave a soft whine.

"A year, Bugsy," he said to the dog, a hoarse, difficult croak. "That's how much longer I had Kelly, than Natalie. A year."

Natalie had been two and a half when Jenny took her. Kelly had been three and a half. He didn't know why he was talking like Natalie was dead. Natalie was out there. Natalie was, presumably, okay.

He looked down at his hand, flattening it, looking at the things in his palm. The first was a folded, crumpled piece of paper; one look at it told him it was a contact address, a California one: San Diego. So, he had the wrong address all along – she didn't live with her mother anymore; maybe her mother didn't even live there anymore.

He could tell himself that maybe that's why his return to adding his phone number to his little cards had gone unnoticed, why no one had acted on it, but he didn't have the energy. He just stared – and then he looked at the other thing, the thing Natalie had left.

It was an old block of wood – small, a block that was either left over from a project, or even something she'd played with as a baby. He ran his hand over it, turned it over, and then he saw – her name written on it, in neat, creative script. She'd put a butterfly over the 'i' in her name – like he used to, when she was little; when she was still his, and not just Jenny's.

She'd written on it, not carved on it.

It just said – _Natalie, 1996_. The year Jasper Shepard had died.

Jenny hadn't just come back to Stillwater; she'd brought Natalie. He could only imagine the spectacle that must have caused. Ogling a grown-up lovechild bastard was no doubt ten times more satisfying for small town folk than rubbernecking a somber funeral.

It must have taken some kind of guts to bring Natalie back here.

And Natalie, had left this mark.

What was it – some kind of SOS, some belief that her errant father would see it, find it? Just the strange whim of a little girl who was – ten, eleven – almost twelve? Whatever nineteen ninety-six had been for her.

Gibbs ran his fingers over her name, and leaned back, pressing his head heavily into the tree. He wished he could sink into it, become nothing; evaporate. Of course he'd had to come back to Stillwater to bury them. Of course it had to be here. Everything else had died here, hadn't it?

He hated Jackson for putting these things in his hands – he hated Shannon's parents, for being from here, for wanting their daughter laid to rest here, for adding salt to his wounds – he hated the Corps, he hated the Russians, he hated – he felt so much hate, so much grief – so much guilt, and regret.

He couldn't think about Natalie; he couldn't think about Jen – they were pale shadows, intangible things that didn't exist to him: what was real right now was the loss of the family he'd held dear for the past few years; his Shannon, his Kelly – the fact that Natalie existed at all seemed surreal, unbelievable; in his worst nightmares, he'd never thought things could turn out like this, that he'd feel something worse than the agony he'd felt when Natalie faded from his life.

Anything was preferable to this.

He thought, quite simply, and with complete conviction, that he'd gladly have had Shannon leave him the same way Jenny had, and take Kelly with her, if it at least meant that somewhere, Kelly was alive and happy, and Shannon had a smile on her face. Anything, anything instead of this.

Bugsy laid at his side, and nudged his thigh with her nose, whining softly. He reached for her, rubbing her fur fiercely – he reached into his pocket, took out his dog tags – the ones he'd given to Kelly – and he placed them around the German shepherd's neck.

Wildly, he thought – maybe he'd write Natalie a letter.

Just as wildly, he thought – when he got back to Paris, he'd take his duty pistol, and swallow a bullet.

He flew back to Paris tomorrow evening; his bus to the Philadelphia airport left the depot at half past two in the afternoon. He'd have Bugsy with him, he'd have the clothes on his back – and again, he'd leave Stillwater behind, with his life in the earth – and this time, there'd be no smiling girl in a purple headband to talk him off a cliff, to promise to write him letters, to be a friend.

That girl, and everything she'd given him, was gone.

* * *

 _"And then he says to me:_  
 _kill me now, kill me now, kill me now, kill me now."_  
 _Under the Gun; The Killers_

* * *

 _-and with this, we finish 'Jarhead'. This was really hard to write ... I had trouble with it. And I am sorry about it, really. It's the first time a story came to be conceived, and I wanted to change it halfway through. But if I'd changed it, it wouldn't have worked with everything I already planned. I hope no one is too happy about this, and I hope you're all interested still to see what happens. The next (final) part will pick up in 1999, our forever significant Jibbs year._

 _feedback appreciated (at least I let Bugsy live?)_ _  
-alexandra_


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